


Sansa plays them all

by bluebright_l



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-02
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:34:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebright_l/pseuds/bluebright_l
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's now some indeterminate time in the future (probably beyond Winds of Winter) and Dany has claimed the Iron Throne.  Sansa has a role to play, one that Littlefinger prepared her well for, and she's up for the challenge.  But that doesn't mean Sandor has to be happy about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Sansa, let me ask you something.” 

The queen’s words were simple, but her tone was quite commanding, and Sansa knew that she’d have to answer whether she liked or not.  Not that she was scared of the queen’s question; she knows how to play this game quite well now, and has an answer for everything.  The two young women sat together on a balcony overlooking the Red Keep, as they often did, Sansa somewhat lazily embroidering and the queen merely sipping wine.  Up until now, it had been a polite and pleasant conversation, but Sansa could sense a change in the queen’s demeanor.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Well, I was only curious, you have been married four times now, and...”

Sansa sighed inwardly, and felt Sandor stiffen behind her, although she knew the Queen wouldn’t notice.  Only someone as finely attuned to him as she was could ever read him, a lucky thing.  Either the Queen was going to ask if it was true, really true, that she was still untouched, or she was going to propose a match.  Both of these were ludicrous, but Sansa steeled herself for either, and mentally prepared her responses.

She let her voice take on a hint of unease and trepidation, not hard to manage.  “That is true, Queen Daenerys.  What do you wish to know?  H-has someone asked for my hand?”

“No,” the queen said in a light tone, “and I wouldn’t presume that any man would, after your luck.”

 _So, then, she is curious about the state of my maidenhead,_ Sansa thought.  _How very common, although easier to manage._

“You had my poor Tyrion first, correct?” The queen had a special affection for Tyrion Lannister, as he had died in her service in Meereen while riding one of her dragons.  “And he never touched you, not once?  When I knew him, he was quite a lusty man.  And please, I’ve told you time and again, just call me Daenerys or Dany when we’re alone together.”

“Yes, Daenerys, Tyrion was my first husband,” Sansa let herself show a sad little smile.  “Tyrion was an awful lecher, but he was kind to me and wouldn’t force me.  In his own way, he had a good heart.”  Sansa could even let herself believe that a little, all these many years later, even if he was a Lannister. 

 _This is where it gets tricky..._ Sansa knew that from here on out, her side of the conversation would be nothing but lies.  She almost relished it, although she could acutely feel Sandor behind her, tense and almost angry.  They had, together, come to terms with their previous lives, but he still did not like other people bringing up the past.

The queen’s - Dany’s - voice brought her back to the conversation. “And then it was those two Vale children, was it the little boy or the older boy who came second?”

“Harry the Heir, they called him.  He was 16.  He died in a hunting accident a few days after we wed.  He was a handsome boy and I was quite smitten with him.  However, it was late autumn when we wed, and I had a raging fever, so they wouldn’t even let him share my bed.  It wouldn’t do for the heir to get sick, especially when the true heir was such a sickly little child.” 

Sansa allowed her eyes to drop slightly, as if remembering the dead in sadness.  In truth, Harrold Hardyng had been a good looking boy, but she had quite despised him, especially when she found out he had fathered two bastards and never even saw the children. 

“So, instead of bedding us, they packed him off on a hunt.  He was thrown from his horse, and broke his neck.”  Sansa knew for a certainty that her wedding-night “fever” had been false, and had been precipitated by a tea given to her by Petyr Baelish.  She assumed, though he had never told her, that Harry’s hunting “accident” had also been arranged by him. 

“It was a terrible shame, because he truly was a good looking man,” she said with a smile at Dany.   
 _  
Poor Sandor, having to stand and listen to this._   Sansa wanted to reach out and take his hand, to squeeze it reassuringly, but she contented herself with flipping her hair softly over the back of her chair.  She knew he was standing close enough that it would brush against his hands and forearms, and he would know what she meant by it. 

The queen smiled back; Sansa knew she was a woman who appreciated a handsome man.  “And then third was the sickly boy heir, your cousin?  I did not know that was done, outside of my family.”

“Well, Daenerys, it isn’t often done, but such a match as it was, wedding the North and the Vale...well, Lord Baelish knew what he was doing.  And we were only cousins, not brother and sister.” 

Sansa knew she was treading on more difficult ground here, for two reasons.  Petyr Baelish was dead, but if he hadn’t already been dead when Daenerys had gotten to Westeros, she would have killed him for his treasons...one of which was trying to raise Sansa up as Queen in the North.  Secondly, and more important to her, was that she could actually feel Sandor’s anger building.

“Yes, it appears he did,” said the queen in a slightly cooler voice. “How soon after the child died did Baelish, this Lord Protector, wed himself to you?”

“Oh, it was some time.  Lord Baelish never jumped into anything, and it would have been suicide to rush that particular play,” Sansa said.  “The lords of the Vale trusted him a little more, once it was revealed that I was Sansa Stark, and not his natural daughter, as we had been claiming before.  I was quite convincing when explaining to them how he had hidden me so that I could eventually carry on my brother’s crown, and he was convincing in his lies of how the Lannisters wanted to burn the Vale and give it to the mountain tribes.” 

Sansa went on, “It took about three months before they decided to align themselves with the North.  Then, another six months of fighting over my hand between them all, before Ser Lyn Corbray proposed that Lord Baelish was the only one who didn’t seem to want me, so he should be the one to have me.  At first, they all laughed; in the end, they found it to be the only thing they could all agree on.” 

Sansa almost flinched at the surge of anger she could feel at her back, where Sandor stood fuming, but the queen didn’t seem to notice. 

“But, Sansa, he did want you, didn’t he?  Who could not?  Explain to me how these lords could have been tricked like this.”

“Oh, yes, Dany, he wanted me.  He wanted me very much,” Sansa said dryly.  “Almost as much as he wanted a crown.”  She bit her lip, an old habit.  _Almost through now, just get through._   “Here’s how it worked.  He showed me only the affection a father might show a daughter, or a courtly man might show a married lady.  At least, in the open, that is.  In private, Lord Baelish was...not as a father should have been.” 

Dany frowned at this, but did not interrupt, so Sansa continued. 

“While all the others were fighting over me, wooing me, he was seen to only give me only counsel and gentle friendship.  He took only kisses, but with the promise of taking much, much more.  I was but a girl, and had nobody, no family, to protect me and my interests.” 

Dany’s frown deepened, and Sansa saw her look back at Sandor with slightly widened eyes.  Sansa didn’t have to look to know his fists were probably clenched tightly at his sides, his face an angry mask.  Sansa and Dany had become close over the past months; out of this friendship, Dany had also grown quite familiar with Sandor, but she had obviously never seen him angry like this.

“And, finally, Lyn Corbray, although seemingly an enemy, was his man, bought and paid for.  Of course, not in gold, but through other means.  So, Corbray spoke with Littlefinger’s voice, and all the lords of the Vale and the North listened.” 

 _How simple I make it sound, when those were the most tense months of my life._

“And then?” the queen asked, although she knew the rest of the story; the whole realm did.

“And then, Daenerys, we were wed at Harrenhal, which had been given to Lord Baelish for some reason or another.  And there was a feast, and then the bedding.  They tumbled us into bed, in this ridiculously huge chamber.  Lord Baelish wouldn’t touch me while they lingered, even though I was as naked as on my name day, so finally one of the ladies there, a warrior woman named Brienne of Tarth,” and here Sansa allowed a grin to come upon her face, “herded the men out with knocks about the head.”

Sansa paused, and glanced over at her queen.  Daenerys did know the story, Sansa could tell by the slight grin on her face, and the way her eyes kept flicking back towards Sandor.  Sansa turned her head slightly, and looked back at him herself.  He, too, had a smile on his face, although it was less amused and more, well, fierce.  She knew that this was a hard thing for him to relive, but also that he counted the part he had played in killing Petyr Baelish among the best things he had ever done in his life.

“And?” Daenerys said, almost breathlessly.

“And then, Sandor came striding out of the shadows in this enormous room, with his sword drawn and his eyes blazing.  He looked like the blessed Warrior, aflame with righteous anger and beautiful to behold.  He walked right up to the bed, and while keeping his eyes and sword pointed at Lord Baelish, he told me to get up off the bed, and come stand behind him.  When I did that, he undid his cloak and handed it to me, and told me to cover up and close my eyes.  I did the first thing he said, but not the second.”  
 _  
All true, so far. Should I trust her with the rest of it, or tell the story she wants to hear?_   Sansa made her decision.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reveals a secret, and Daenerys begs a favor. Sandor is not amused.

“And then Petyr Baelish died.  But Sandor didn’t kill him, although he dearly wanted to,” Sansa said with a smile, as she turned to include both the queen and Sandor in her line of sight.  

Daenerys merely quirked an eyebrow, her violet eyes sparkling with the pleasure of a good story.  Sandor, however, almost growled at Sansa, and gripped her shoulder much more severely than she thought strictly necessary.

“Sandor, please,” Sansa said. “I think our queen deserves the truth, and we can trust her with it, can we not, Daenerys?”

The queen simply nodded, her smile growing a little larger, as though she were a child who had ferreted out what she was getting for a nameday present.  Sansa glanced up at Sandor, and smiled at him, for him only, and then gently touched his hand at her shoulder.  His anger softened, as she knew it would, and he lowered his eyes and nodded.

“So, Dany, as the story goes, Sandor slit his throat and then cut off his manhood and left him to bleed in his marriage bed.  It is true, that is how Lord Baelish died.  But, Sandor had his sword drawn and was ready to run Baelish through when I stayed his hand.  He looked at me as if I were crazy, but when I took his dagger off his hip, he understood.  Littlefinger was a small man; Sandor held my husband’s arms back with one of his own, and tilted his head back by the hair with his other.  Sandor keeps his weapons sharp, it was the work of but a moment.  I, however, didn’t cut his manhood off - I wouldn’t touch that disgusting thing.  That was entirely Sandor’s idea.”

With that, Sandor and the queen both let out a sharp laugh, and then looked at each other and laughed some more, the tension draining out of the little group.  Sansa sat just smiling.  It felt quite wonderful to finally tell someone that, and she was pleased that Daenerys wasn’t angry or appalled, but only amused.  _She truly is a dragon; she has no qualms about intrigue or killing,_ Sansa thought.  

Still chuckling, the queen motioned for Sandor to come and stand in front of them, and he did so, leaning against the railing of the balcony.  Sansa watched him a moment, appreciating the way his body looked so powerful and dangerous, even in a moment of relative relaxation.  She never tired of looking at him, and loved moments like this, when he was at ease and laughing.  She realized that the queen, while still smiling slightly, had stopped laughing and was looking at Sansa with a new gleam in her eyes.

“Thank you for that truth, my dear Sansa,” said the queen, “I would have never known the difference if you had told me the story, as you put it.  Although, I must say, I like the reality more than a little better.  Since you have decided I can be trusted, I hope you will not take offense at my next few little questions.  Sandor, that goes for you as well.  I have heard you take offense rather easily, where our Sansa is concerned, and I have seen for myself these past months that you are quite...devoted, shall we say.”

That wiped the smile off of Sandor’s face in an instant, and Sansa knew even the queen could see how his body tensed and his eyes went flat and cold.  _Careful here,_ Sansa cautioned herself, and hoped that Sandor could pick up the message from the way she held her head and trained her face into an easy smile.

“My queen,” Sansa began.

“Daenerys, remember?” the queen interrupted.

“Yes, of course.  Daenerys, ask what you will.  We will not take offense, will we, Sandor?”

He looked at her sharply, but only said, “Aye, if none is meant.”

Daenerys drew a deep breath, and exhaled.  “None is meant, I swear it.  Here is my first question, and Sansa, you have given me the best way to ask it, I think.”  

“Sansa, just now, you said, ‘we will not take offense’.  Is there...what I mean to ask is, are you...”  And here the queen shifted her gaze to take them both in. “Well, I shall just say it.  Are you just what you seem, a lady and her sworn shield, or is there more?  Are the two of you a ‘we’, so to speak?”  

As the words tumbled out of her mouth, Daenerys blushed, and Sansa let herself blush, both quite prettily.  Sandor turned very pale, his burns seeming to blaze against the whiteness of the other side of his face.  Sansa and he had both desperately feared a day when they might be torn apart, and if anyone could make that happen, it would be the queen.  She didn’t think that that was what this was about, though.

Sansa held out her hand to him, and he took it, falling to one knee beside her as she rose.  He bowed his head before the queen, and Sansa placed her hand upon his shoulder.  He brought one of his own up to cover it, clenching her small fingers as if for strength.

“Yes, Daenerys,” she said evenly, “Sandor and I are a ‘we’, as you put it, and though we can never wed, we will not be parted in this lifetime.”  

She felt Sandor squeeze her hand even harder, and she welcomed the feeling of the bones in her hand shifting against each other.  She felt as if she might faint, or run a mile, or eat a dozen lemon cakes.  Sansa felt a wild, fierce hunger in her belly, in her chest, as she finally claimed her love in front of a person who could snatch it all away.  She had never felt so free, or so scared, since the moment she had slit Petyr Baelish’s throat.

“Ohhh, that is so very romantic!” Daenerys positively gushed.  

Sansa and Sandor’s heads both drew up sharply as if pulled by strings, to stare at their queen.  Sandor squeezed Sansa’s hand again, so hard a tear sprung to her eye.  When the queen saw it, she wiped at her own eyes, and sniffled a little.  Sandor released his grip on Sansa’s hand, and stood up again, albeit rather warily.  Sansa took the opportunity to kneel before the queen, putting her hands around the queen’s, and smiling up at her.

“And now you know our last secret, my sweet queen.  Yes, I know...Dany.  I am glad you think it romantic, but you must understand why we have kept this a secret.  I am sure many people speak of it behind closed doors, we don’t care enough to keep it that secret, but Sandor would have the tongue of any man who speaks of it in public.”

“Oi!” Sandor interrupted.  “Little bird, you can’t sit there and tell the queen I’ll cut her tongue out!  Have you lost your bloody mind?”

Sansa and Daenerys looked at each other and burst into gales of laughter, while Sandor glowered at the both of them.  When neither of them seemed to mind in the slightest, he just shook his head and slid weakly into the chair Sansa had left empty.  The two young women laughed again to see the big, strong man stretch his body out wearily and prop his head in his hands.  He muttered a muffled curse, that if Sansa had to guess, she’d say was something in the range of _seven bloody buggering hells_.  It made her giggle even harder, although she did feel a little bad for making him sound so bloodthirsty.  _But, really, I didn’t say he would cut her tongue out,_ she thought.  _He needn’t be so touchy about it._

“Oh, you have no worries from me, you two!” the queen told them.  “I think it’s absolutely adorable, and Sandor, I have half a mind to raise you up to lord of something or other, and force you to wed your lovely lady here.”  

She smiled at Sansa when he didn’t even raise his head, but only snorted and sunk further into the chair.  But then the queen went on, and Sansa’s smile began to fade.

“But I won’t do that, or at least not yet, though I really would like to.”  Daenerys stared intently at Sansa, and for the first time since the conversation began, Sansa felt truly uncomfortable.    
 _  
She wants something, and it’s something to do with Sandor, and me, and us.  Seven help us..._

“It is a tiresome game I play at, here in Westeros, do you know that?  Oh, I am queen, people bow and scrape before me, but I find they do not present true faces to the world.  You two, for example, hide a secret from the world.  How many others have secrets they hide from me, more dangerous ones than a forbidden love?  And even you two must know that, although Sansa’s reputation is dark, her claim is strong and she is beautiful.  I have heard men speak of marrying you, dear Sansa; men who would not be content to come to your bed only once a year and otherwise leave you to your games with your loyal dog.”

Sandor’s head snapped up, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword.  Sansa gasped, and turned to him with a reprimand on her lips.  Before she could speak, the queen waved her hand at him airily, saying, “Please, I know my words are harsh, but I only wish to impart, to the both of you, the importance of my next question.  It will affect you both greatly, and while I won’t take no for an answer, I want you to agree willingly.”

Sandor took his hand off his sword hilt, but his eyes stayed trained on the queen.  “My queen,” he rasped in a voice Sansa had not heard in a very long time, “I have little and less patience for the word games of women.  If you would have something of my lady or me, ask it now.  As you said, I am but a loyal dog, so rest assured of our answer.”  

The last line he delivered with a sneer, and such bitterness, that both Sansa and the queen flinched.  Sansa could remember a time when all his words had been harsh and angry, had frightened her, but it had been long enough that his anger surprised her a little now.  She longed to go to him, to soothe him, but she knew it would have to wait.

“Very well,” the queen said.  “Sansa, it becomes more and more obvious to me every day that while you dwelt under Petyr Baelish’s roof, you learned many lessons from him.  You tipped your hand when you explained to me how Ser Lyn Corbray was turned, and used.  I believe you to be more cunning and devious than any man has ever guessed at.  I have a Master of Whispers, Lord Varys.  I wish for you to be, in total secrecy, my Mistress of Whispers.  I trust Varys only a little, and that may be too much.  However, I trust you implicitly.  You must find things out for me, and we shall see how much I can trust Varys and the others.”

Sansa and Sandor could only stare dumbly at the queen, but she wasn’t finished yet.

“I give you leave to do this in whatever way you see fit, but I’m afraid the easiest way for you may be a path which neither of you will enjoy traveling down.  I speak of seduction, womanly wiles, whatever you may call it.”

Sansa felt she must interrupt before Sandor entirely lost his cool.  “My dearest queen, Daenerys, you have not misjudged me.  I learned much and more from the man you call Baelish, although any lesson I received was from the cunning Littlefinger.  I can do as you ask, and I will.”  She dared not look at Sandor, although she heard a snarl rip from his throat at her words.  

“You must know, however, that I may have to use unsavory means from time to time.  And if it comes to wedding, well, I tell you right now that no man shall survive being joined to me, save one.”  When she heard Sandor’s heavy exhale, she knew he was behind her in this.  He would rage later, behind closed doors, but he would support her in it, in the end.

The queen obviously realized this as well, and Sansa saw some tension leave her body, along with a slow breath.  

“All understood, my dearest Sansa, and completely agreed upon.  I will not ask this of you forever, you know, but only until I feel safer upon my throne.  Perhaps until I wed.  And then, if you wish it, I will name Sandor lord of somewhere, and you two shall be wed in the Great Sept of Baelor next to me and my beloved, and we will all dance together one summer night.  If you don’t wish the burden of lordship, Sandor, you two may remain as you are, or run away to Braavos, though I would miss you dearly.  I need this task of you, but I want, in the end, for you to be happy together.  I am your queen, but I am a woman too, and I will not deny you your love.”

It was still a bitter tonic to swallow, but Sansa’s heart soared at the thought of wedding Sandor, a thought she had often struggled with discarding.  She knew it was one of his most deeply held desires, though he would never admit it, and she thought the offer would definitely make him more open to the work she now had set before her.  Which, if she were being completely honest with herself, sounded much more interesting than the forgotten embroidery that had been her main occupation lately.

“I know I have given you two much to discuss,” the queen said, as she drained her glass of wine.  “Go now, and on your way out, please send Ser Jorah or Ser Barristan out to me.  One of them should be a little way off, down the hall.”

“You sent your Queensguard away, Dany?”  Sansa was shocked.  “Why did you do such a thing, they are sworn-“

“They are sworn to protect, and obey me. They obey. I did not wish even them to overhear us discussing such matters, delicate as they are. You see how I protect your secret, even before I knew it for sure?  Besides, could Sandor not protect me just as well as he does you? I believe he could best any of my Queensguard, although I would never tell them that - I do love them so.”

At that, Sansa had to smile.  The queen, for all her strength, loved like a woman born to it.  Maybe it wasn’t foolish to hope she would fall in love soon, and Sansa could set aside her new employment.

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Daenerys.  Sandor and I appreciate it.  We will talk more tonight at dinner, if it please you.”

“No, it most certainly does not!” The queen was adamant now.  “I don’t want to see either of you at dinner tonight, or around the castle at all.  I will have dinner enough for you both sent to your chambers.  Sansa, you are quite sick, I can see it coming upon you now.  Sandor, you must tend to her, I fear.  The grand maester shall be very busy working on something for me.  I think you had better stay abed, for oh...at least a few days.  I’ll send for you when you’re better.”

Sansa glanced helplessly at Sandor, who was now grinning in a most unsettling fashion, almost angrily, but more lecherously.  He grabbed her by the upper arm, and led her towards the exit of the balcony with a roughness that set her stomach to flip-flopping.

“As you command, your grace,” he rasped.  “My lady does look ill, I see it, now that you mention it.  Have no fear, I shall...attend...to her to the utmost of my abilities.”  

Sansa changed her mind, his grin was 100% lecherous, she decided.  She was practically squirming, both in anticipation and embarrassment.  

“You may send for us in a week, not a day earlier,” Sandor continued.  “She will be so very weak from...sickness, I won’t have her taxed unnecessarily.  You understand, I’m sure, my queen,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, but with that same grin upon his face.  

He had never presumed, before today, to speak to the queen in this way, as an equal, but they had grown accustomed to each other over the course of Sansa’s friendship with the queen.  Sansa could see that Daenerys took no offense from it, as she most certainly would have with another man.

Indeed, the queen merely smiled serenely, and said, “You are a fine dog indeed, Sandor.  Sansa, I’m sure you’ll be feeling better in no time.  I’ll speak with you again next week.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite pair have been ordered to bed, but Sandor is *still* not amused.

Sandor hauled Sansa off the balcony, through the queen’s sitting room, and out the door into the hallway so fast her head was spinning.  As he nudged the door shut with a hip, he gripped both of Sansa’s arms in his big hands.

“Do not say one bloody word.  If you open your mouth before we enter your chambers, I will turn you over my knee and spank your arse until you cry for mercy,” Sandor spit the words through a clenched jaw, as he looked up and down the hall for Jorah Mormont or Barristan Selmy.

“Ohh, pretty please...” Sansa sang throatily, and batted her eyelashes up at him, although she really was a little nervous at how angry he still was.  She wasn’t sure if she should have said anything, but in some moods, a lusty comment could disarm him.

He glared down at her, but look in his eyes was not just anger any more.  “Oh, you think you’d like that, little bird?  You just keep that pretty mouth shut, if you want a damn thing from me.  But, I almost forgot, we’ve been sent to bed, and ordered to fuck, by no less than the queen herself.  Takes some of the fun out of it, when it’s a bloody order.  Damn women and their buggering games.  If I hear another word from you, I’ll not spank you tonight, then, nor do this, either.”  

Sandor let one hand slip up into Sansa’s long auburn hair, and he wrenched her head back to expose her neck.  He leaned his head down, and sucked at the soft spot where her jaw met her neck, right below her ear.  His other hand came up to her face, and he set the tip of his index finger on the fullness of her lower lip.  She flicked it with the tip of her tongue, and his hand tightened in her hair; his desire was making him rougher with her than normal, and it was kindling a hot fire within Sansa.  She made a small whimper, wanting more, but then clamped her mouth shut before she could voice a word.  She smiled at him, and mimed locking her mouth up with a key, and pressed the imaginary key into his hand.

Sandor grinned at that, and tucked the imaginary key into a pouch at his belt.  He took her by one arm, a little more gently this time, and walked along a ways until they found Ser Jorah Mormont, unhappily lounging against a statue of Baelor the Blessed.  He took one look at Sandor’s expression, and his grip on Sansa, and stood warily.

“Mormont, the queen wants you, gods knows why.  Whatever you’re thinking now, or think you know, or are...told,” Sandor paused, and Sansa laughed inside to see Ser Jorah raise one eyebrow elegantly, a gesture very much like the queen’s.  _Or maybe she got it from him,_ Sansa pondered, _they are very close._

Oblivious to Sansa’s musings, Sandor went on, “You should think very fucking carefully before you speak of it.  Ever.  I would not like to displease the queen in any way, but Lady Sansa is my main concern.  You ask the queen what my lady told her about how I deal with men who talk too bloody much.  And, gods, that woman needs a man...can you not see to it?”

Sansa gasped, and tried to elbow Sandor in the ribs, but his grip on her arm was still too strong for that.  Ser Jorah put his hand on the hilt of his sword, glaring, but then his shoulders slumped, and he just sighed and rolled his eyes.  

“You’ve got a shit mouth on you, Hound, begging your pardon, my lady.  I can see the queen’s talk with you was not well-received, as she warned us it might not be, so I’ll let it go this time, but you wouldn’t dare talk to Barristan that way, or he’d run you through.”

“He could try,” Sandor rasped.  “But, you’re right about one thing.  I wouldn’t talk to him that way.  Because he’s got more honor than you have in your little finger, and a great deal more sense too.”

Jorah Mormont just sighed again, and sketched a small bow towards Sansa before walking away in the direction of the queen’s rooms.  Sandor watched him go with a smile on his face that bared an alarming amount of teeth, a grimace of almost-hatred.

“That man,” Sandor was again speaking through gritted teeth, “is a piece of shit, bloody, buggering...”  Sansa wondered if she was supposed to respond to this, and decided against it, fairly sure he was just venting some rage.  “...cowardly arsehole!  I can understand why your father wanted his head off, he’s a rotten piece of work, that one is.”

Sansa just looked up at him mutely, and he pulled her aside into an alcove.

“Little bird...”  Sandor’s eyes were filled with lust, and still with anger, almost too much for Sansa to bear.  But she hadn’t closed her eyes waiting for his kisses in a long time, and she didn’t intend to start again now.

He kissed her then, a crushing, hard, possessive kiss.  She sometimes pushed back against a kiss like this, fighting him for control.  Today she was pliant and yielding, knowing that was what he needed from her.  And sure enough, his lips softened against hers, and his grip on her shoulder became a feather-light touch at the nape of her neck.  _Oh, I want this forever,_ Sansa thought dreamily, _and the other kind too, the hard kiss.  All the kisses, everything, forever. I would do anything Daenerys asked of me, for this one moment._

After some time, Sandor ended the kiss by wrapping his huge arms around Sansa, squeezing her and kissing the top of her head.  They stepped out of the alcove, and continued along their way.  As they walked, Sansa tapped his elbow and motioned to her mouth, wanting to know if she had been forgiven, if she could speak.

He laughed at her, and said, “No, no chirping; I’m rather enjoying the quiet.”  

Then he laughed again to see the look on her face, although it wasn’t an unkind laughter.  Sansa had long ago gotten used to his teasing of her, but if he wanted quiet, she’d show him quiet.  She noted with satisfaction that they were approaching her chambers, and recalled his oft-repeated command to her, “Sing, little bird.”  Well, she’d show him.  _He wants quiet, it’s quiet he’ll get.  We’ll see how much he enjoys a quiet bedchamber, I’ll not sing a peep for him._   The thought made her feel positively wicked, and she smirked up at him, copying a familiar expression of his.

He looked at her stonily, and wrenched the door open, leading her inside like a small child.  He kicked the door shut behind him, still holding onto her arm, loosely now.  She jerked out of his grasp and turned her back on him, continuing through the sitting area, and into the bed chambers.  She could hear him following her at a close pace, but he did not grab her again, and she didn’t look back.

“Well, little bird, I was fairly sure before, but I’m certain now,” Sandor’s voice was bitter, “you’ll be the death of me in the end.  No matter what I do, I can’t keep you safe for long, can I?”

Sansa whirled on him.  “You great big fool, you think I want to do this?  But in the end, it will make us both safe, and married, did you forget that part?  Or would you rather run away to Braavos?  Idiot!”  Her annoyance at his tone made her brave.

She expected him to get angrier with her, as he was already furious, but he just sat heavily on the bed and pulled her close to him, in between the spread of his legs.

“I’d go for Braavos right this instant, if I didn’t know she’d have someone after us.  We could have a week, maybe a little more.  Would you go?”

“No,” she simply said.  “Daenerys is my queen, and I’ll not run from her.  Nor will I run from the chance to gain us the freedom to be as we are, with no deception, no _lies_.”  Sansa put a heavy emphasis on the word, to remind him of the value he placed on truth.

“Very well, then.”  Sandor grinned a little nastily.  “Prepare yourself.”

“For what, love?” Sansa could guess, but she was playing the part he required of her at that moment.

“To suffer my wrath,” he muttered as he swiftly bent Sansa over his knees, and flipped her skirts up.

He gave her ten hard whacks, not trying to be sexy or silly, but truly spanking her as if she had been a very naughty child.  Sansa was a little stunned at the force he put into it, although she could tell he was using but a fraction of his true strength.  Sansa forced herself to not cry out, to not make a single sound.  She could feel her bottom burning, and she was surprised to realize her eyes had become teary.  She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried, in truth, not through subterfuge.  _I suppose I did deserve that, but he needn’t have been so mean about it,_ she thought.

Sandor set her back on her feet in front of him, and peered at her face.

“No singing, little bird?  We shall see about that,” he said, as he lay back on the bed, pulling her on top of him.

She gave him the smirk again, as she straddled him, wrapped in his arms.  “You said you were enjoying the quiet, dear.  If you enjoy it so much, do not let me be the one to disturb you.”

He looked at her incredulously, and she responded by making her smirk a little more, well, smirky.  _Oh, I am mean,_ Sansa thought, _the poor man is truly upset.  It’s his fault, though, his bad manners have rubbed off on me._   Sandor stared into her eyes, searching, it seemed to her, for something to grasp on to.  She bent her face to his, and kissed him gently.  He returned the kiss, and when she let up, he sighed against her mouth.

“Gods, woman, I love you,” Sandor almost groaned this.  “I don’t say it often, but you know it to be true.  I know you must do this, for the queen, and I’ll help you however I can, but I’ll not like it, nor be a happy man, until the day it’s over and we’re wed.”  He ended his little speech on a petulant note, but all Sansa could hear was his acceptance of the situation and the word ‘wed’.

“Eeeee, you’ll take the lordship the queen has offered?!  You’ll truly wed me, in front of the whole kingdom?”  Sansa bounced up and down where she was sitting on top of Sandor, making him ‘oof’ as all the air was pushed out of him.  She grinned from ear to ear as he tickled her sides and threw her down beside him on the bed.

“If you don’t kill me first, little bird...more like an ox, crushing me like that,” Sandor was gruff, but it was a pleased kind of gruff.  

His tickling turned into soft stroking, and Sansa could feel his fingertips going towards her laces.  All the while, he was kissing her gently, on the mouth, then tip of her nose, then on each eyelid.  As he pulled her laces out, and parted her bodice to reveal her bare skin, the kisses moved to her neck, then her collarbone, then lower, to her breasts.  She wriggled her way out of the bodice completely, eager to feel him on her bare skin.

Sansa held her breath in anticipation, as Sandor brushed his lips across her nipples, ever so gently.  His breathing was warm and soft against her skin, while his lips were merely a ghost of a sensation, almost less noticeable than the air of his breath.  She arched her back slightly, and he took one of her nipples into his mouth, using his tongue and teeth, while simultaneously tugging her skirts off of her hips.

Sansa moaned as her skirts came off, and Sandor took her other nipple into his mouth.  He didn’t neglect the first, but pinched it between his fingers, and traced hot lines around her breast with the tip of one finger.

“Mmm, little bird, yes, that’s right.  You’ll be singing for me in no time, won’t you?”

She frowned at him, annoyed that he’d taken his mouth away from its work to tease her.  He kept his eyes on her face, and stuck his tongue out to tease her nipple, but she didn’t make a sound.  He bent his head down slightly, and took a nipple between his teeth, still looking her in the eye.  When he bit down, she inhaled sharply, but made no sound.

“You are a stubborn, perverse little thing,” Sandor said, nipping at her breast between each word.  “I think it comes from getting your way far too often.  I’ve spoiled you, haven’t I?”

Sansa said not a word, but stuck her tongue out at him, as if to say, “Call me a spoiled brat, I’ll act like one.”

“As you wish,” he said.  “You know how I love a challenge.”

From then on, it was less tender and more fierce.  He would not let her touch him, except to run her hands through his hair and around his neck.  After a while, he left her breasts behind, and moved lower on her body.  Sandor pulled at her hips, moving her lower on the bed, and moved his hands as if to yank her legs apart forcefully.  She beat him to it, opening them by her own volition, and smiling at him sweetly when he scowled up at her.  Sansa was surprised to feel an enormous sense of power, and as he began to run his tongue lightly along the edges of her lower lips, she realized that it was from her refusal to make a sound, to sing out for him.

That sense of power, of control, was the only thing that kept her from crying out when he found the sensitive nub of flesh just above her entrance.  He sucked, licked, grazed it with his teeth, all at a maddeningly even pace, not too slow, but nowhere near fast enough.  Sansa began to pant, and thrust her hips against his face, feeling almost obscene.  After a time, he slid a finger into her, and that plus the continued ministrations of his mouth, made her toes tingle and her chest ache.  She realized she was holding her breath, to keep from making a sound.  Just as she released it, Sandor crooked his finger deep inside her, as if beckoning her to come, while flicking his tongue quickly against that hard little nub of flesh.  Sansa came hard, then, bucking against his finger and face, breathing heavily and pounding her fists into the bed below her.  

Through the haze of pleasure washing over her, Sansa noted to herself that she had still been able to refrain from crying out.  _Oh gods, it feels even better this way, in control..._ , she thought.  Although she was still distracted by the contractions of her peak washing over her, she noticed that Sandor had gotten up from between her legs and was undressing, stroking her leg in between tossing articles of clothing on the floor. He looked almost amused, but Sansa had no illusions about his mood, and knew she would be hard-pressed not to sing when he was inside her.

She crawled to the end of the bed, and knelt in front of where he stood, now completely divested of clothing.  She reached out to him, wanting to kiss him. Sandor let her put her arms around him, and nuzzle at his neck, before tossing her back on the bed and pinning her down with his body.  She could feel his hardness against her, throbbing in time with the vein in his neck, and Sansa realized that he was quite annoyed with her.  She shivered in anticipation; he was so very...forceful, when annoyed.

“That was very, very naughty, little bird,” Sandor said in a lecturing tone.  “I thought you’d break my finger, you were coming so hard.  The least you could do for your poor old hound is sing out, let him know how good it feels when he’s got his head between your legs.”

She sniffed at that a little, he knew she didn’t like it when he called himself that.  Sandor just smirked at her and nudged her legs gently with his knee, and she spread them willingly.  He didn’t hesitate or tease her at all, but simply adjusted his body and thrust himself into her fully, all in one smooth motion.  Sansa’s eyes widened and an almost imperceptible keen escaped her lips; usually he would ease himself in to her, give her time to adjust to the extreme size of him.

“Ah, there’s one little note I hear,” he said.  She could see a spark of satisfaction in his eyes, and though he hadn’t even begun to move his hips against her, she could feel him throbbing inside of her.  It set her inner muscles to throbbing, as well, and she didn’t think either of them could last long, not now.  Sandor began to move, slow and hard, the hard muscles at his hips grinding into the peaks of her hip bones.  Usually he kept himself propped up when she was underneath him, using his forearms.  

Today, he exercised no such courtesies, and his full weight was against her.  His hands were near her shoulders, one pressing down hard on her collarbone, moving her body down into his thrusts.  The other hand circled her throat, not quite squeezing, but not lightly either —  as if he wanted to choke her or kiss her, and couldn’t decide which.

As Sansa’s pleasure built, she decided that, while the power silence gave her felt good, the satisfaction Sandor would get from hearing her would make this all a thousand times better.  She began to move her own hips against his, and when he increased his speed a little, to match her, she whispered his name sibilantly, “Sandor...”

When she saw the way his eyes flashed, and felt how his hands tightened up, Sansa knew she was right.  His hand at her throat was now beginning to restrict her breathing, but strangely, it only served to make the pleasure come into a sharper focus.  She managed to pull her hands out from where they were crushed beneath him, and scraped her nails down his back.  She moaned, louder this time, but wordless; she could feel her moan vibrating against his hand at her throat.  She was rewarded with a moan in return, “Sansa...”, and he moved his hand from around her neck down to the other side of her collarbone, and buried his face there in its place.  She could feel him beginning to lose control of his motions, the speed of his thrusts was growing frantic, and she whined with pleasure against his ear.

Sandor groaned into her neck, and she knew he was right at the edge, and she was too, and it was so good, a spiraling pressure deep inside that made her lightheaded.

“Please, oh please please please,” Sansa said, each word more breathless than the last.  At the last word, she could feel him fall off that edge, and he raised off of her just a little, and began to pump his hips into her so hard she half-feared their hipbones would spark and catch fire.  The angle he had moved to was just enough to send her off the edge as well, and she had no more words, and could only cry out as the pressure inside of her released in a sweet burst.  As her muscles clenched, he gave a hoarse cry as well, and thrust in to her a final time, spending himself inside her.  She pulled his body down to cover hers, and he tangled his hands in her hair as she smoothed hers down the hard planes of his back.

After a moment, he raised up and kissed her.  She could feel the smile on his lips, even before she opened her eyes, and couldn’t help smiling back.

“Much, much better, little bird,” Sandor said gently.  “That is my very favorite song, did you know?”

“I think I could have guessed,” Sansa said.  “Shall I sing it again for you after dinner?”

“Oh, yes, you most definitely shall.  And for the rest of the week, as well.”

Sansa gently shoved Sandor off of her, and rolled on her side to face him.  He gave her a pretend-hurt look, and rolled her over to her other side, so he could spoon up behind her.  She felt him cling to her body, and bury his face in her hair, breathing deeply.  She sometimes teased him about sniffing her like a dog, but he knew that she liked it almost as much as he did.  Suddenly, a thought came to her head; she was loath to disturb their peaceful state, but it was quite urgent.


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short interlude following the last chapter...

“My love,” she said, hesitant to say what she was thinking.

“Mmmm,” his response was just a noise at the back of her head.  He was too distracted by the scent of her and the aftermath of their lovemaking to make a proper reply.

“Sandor,” Sansa brought a little brusqueness to her voice, “Listen, darling, I’ve thought of something.  I don’t think it can wait, not long anyway.”

“You’ve decided you want to run away to Braavos after all?” He wasn’t taking her seriously, to her annoyance.  “First things first, we’ll have to chop off all this hair of yours, it’s what you’d call a dead giveaway.  I think I’ll get you some little boy’s clothes, dress you up as a squire.  You’ll have to saddle Stranger for me.  I’m sorry, he’ll probably only bite off one or two fingers, though.  Will you be a good little squire for me?”

“I’ll not touch that beast of yours, he’s awful.  I mean, of course he’s a wonderful horse for you, but he always tries to eat my hair.  Does my hair look like hay to you?”

“Mmmm, no, it’s pure silk,” he said, rubbing her hair between his fingers as if it truly was silk. “I take it back, we can’t go to Braavos, not if means losing this beautiful hair.  Sorry, you’ll just have to be the best little Mistress of Whispers, seducing all the men of the court.  While you’re at it, why don’t you see if you can’t find the bloody queen a man, quick-like.”  Sandor’s voice had turned slightly bitter, but he was still holding Sansa and breathing deeply against the back of her head.

“Well, yes, that’s what has to be done,” Sansa agreed.  “But, listen, if I’m going to do it right, and do it completely, then...”

She felt him go still, and he pulled his head away from hers, and turned her back over to face him.

“I have no clue where you’re going with this, but I don’t think I’ll like it overmuch,” Sandor said with a slight frown.

“No, you won’t like it a bit, but it has to be done,” Sansa said.  “We have to call Jaime and Brienne back, right away.”

“Damn it, woman,” he said as he rolled away from her and off the bed.  “My seed isn’t even dry on your legs, and you say that man’s name in our bed?  Why must we call them back?  Can’t you let them figure themselves out in peace, they’ve been gone barely a month.”

Sansa saw him gathering his clothes off the floor, and she sat up in bed, pulling a sheet over herself.  She scooted over to a table by the side of the bed, and grabbed a scrap of parchment and pen.  As Sandor dressed himself, she scrawled a seemingly vague note, but one that either Jaime or Brienne would readily understand as an urgent summons.  She signed it, rolled, sealed and addressed it, and then thought for a second.

“Where are they at now, do you think?  I’d rather not send more than one...”

“You know they’re at Tarth by now, they’ve probably only just got there.  He’ll come back cursing you, and maybe she will too, if he’s given her a taste...gods, I’d not for all the gold in Casterly Rock,” Sandor shuddered as he pulled his tunic on, now fully clothed.

“Don’t be cruel,” Sansa said absently, as she addressed the outside of the parchment.  “You know, she really does have the most beautiful eyes.  And, honestly, she’s a much healthier match for him than his own twin sister.  He’s a good man, deep down inside, you know.”

“Little bird, you think I’m a good man, you’re no judge of character.” Sandor snorted.  “Jaime Lannister’s a little golden cunt, and I’d rather chop his other hand off than bring him back here.  But, if you want him, you’ll have him.  You’re right about his women though.  I’d take Brienne the Beauty over Cersei fucking Lannister any day.”

Sansa looked up at Sandor, and her expression was cold as ice.  _He’s jealous, jealous of Jaime Lannister.  Ridiculous._   A small part of her was pleased to note the way he blanched when he saw the anger on her face.

“You listen to me, and you listen good.  Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth are our two closest allies, and are completely loyal to me.  They were there at Harrenhal with us, they came there with you.  Or had you forgotten?  Do you think you’d have got in alone?  Maybe, maybe not.  But I will always be grateful to them for that, and for everything after.  I feel terrible about dragging them back, but it is necessary.  Don’t you understand?”

Sandor said nothing, just glowered at her.

“You do, you’re just too stubborn to admit it.  If I’m to go around flirting and romancing people, I can’t have you at my back every moment of the day, you’d kill someone within a fortnight.  I’d rather die than send you away completely, but I need a rotation of guards, don’t you see?  I need people to see me as available, approachable...vulnerable,” Sansa said.  

Sandor frowned at that, but still held his tongue.  

“And while Jaime and Brienne are both worthy warriors, they are nothing next to you.  I need them to do this job that’s been set before me.  As far as wanting goes, I want nothing, except for you and this.” Sansa gestured at the bed and the space between them.  “But we must earn that, I’m afraid, and it won’t come easy.  Now, will you help me, or must I do this alone?”

Sandor crossed the room, and knelt in front of where she sat at the edge of the bed.

Passionately, he started, “You’ve shamed me, little bird.  Forgive-,”

“Hush, there’s nothing to forgive.  Kiss me now, and go send the raven.  Hopefully, dinner will be here when you get back.  And, Sandor?”

“What?”

“You are a good man.  You’re the best of them all,” Sansa said quietly, but with conviction.

“Little bird, the only good thing about me is you.”  Sandor kissed her once, tapped her nose with the rolled parchment, and went off to send the raven.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's sworn shields, Jaime and Brienne, return. Sandor has issues with this...of course. He's a sexy bundle of issues, tbh.

Sansa lounged in bed, one leg thrown over Sandor’s, tendrils of auburn hair spread across his bare chest like rivulets of blood or wine.  _Now that was a morbid thought,_ she told herself, _get ahold of yourself._   Their week of solitude and pleasure had been supremely satisfying, but it was at an end.  The queen had given them an extra day to allow Sansa’s sworn shields, Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth, to arrive, but they had had a messenger not an hour past, stating that the pair would arrive by dusk.  To Sansa’s delight, and Sandor’s extreme amusement, the messenger had been none other than Podrick Payne, Brienne’s excruciatingly shy squire.

Podrick was devoted to Brienne, and served Jaime as well, although less willingly.  When he had come to Sansa’s chambers, he was fairly writhing with embarrassment, a typical thing for him.  She’d hugged him with one arm, and motioned him to a chair in the sitting area.  Sandor stayed back, leaning in the doorway of their bed chamber, as he made Podrick even more nervous than normal.

“M-my Lady Sansa, Ser and my Lady Brienne will be here this evening,” Pod had stuttered out.  “My Lady told me to say they’d c-come tonight, but not to wait up for them...but Ser was most insistent that they will dine with you tonight.”

Sandor had laughed then, startling Sansa and poor Pod.  “Bugger your Ser.  I’ll feed him a fine dish, if he tries to come here for dinner.  You’d best keep them both out, until Lady Sansa sends for them, understand, boy?”

Podrick had blushed like a maiden, and run out of the room.  

Sansa sighed as she recalled it, and kissed a large scar on Sandor’s ribcage, a memory of his battle with Gregor.  “You do know that your little jest with Pod earlier means that Jaime will feel he must come barging in here, if only to challenge your word?”

“Obviously,” Sandor’s reply was flat. “Why do you think I said it? If I must have the man around, I’ll at least have my fun with him.”

Sansa pouted.  “Wouldn’t you rather have your fun with me?”

“Who says I can’t have both, little bird?  I mean to show _Ser_ Jaime what’s mine is mine, and he can very well bugger off,” Sandor played idly with her breasts, teasing one pink nipple into firmness with a lazy finger as he spoke.

“I don’t-“

“Listen, if you’re to play this role, and Lannister and the lady Brienne are to witness it...well, I want no confusion about the facts of the matter.”

“I plan on explaining it to them fully, Sandor.  Neither of them are dumb, they’ll understand.  Besides, I’m not sure I understand what you mean by ‘facts of the matter’,” Sansa said.

“The facts of the matter are: you’re mine, as you know I’m yours.  Tonight may be the last in a long while that I get you all to myself, and I don’t intend to let that golden cunt or the warrior wench take you from me for one second.  Let them come for dinner.  They can sit at that table,” Sandor motioned to the adjacent sitting room, “and have twenty courses.  I mean to have _you_ , over and over, all night long.  Whether they’re here or not.  D’you understand me now?”

Sansa was horrified at the thought of it, although she also felt a surge of wet heat between her legs.  _He’s literally gone mad,_ she thought.  _That is the most improper, disturbing...  
_  
“You’re mad,” Sansa declared, but she climbed on top of him as she said it.  “That’s a disgusting thing to say,” she said as she ground her wetness into him, and felt him growing hard beneath her.  “I’d die of embarrassment.  Besides, you know Jaime, he’d want to come in here and watch, just to spite you.”  

She had meant this last comment as a rebuke, a way of angering him into agreeing with her.  To her surprise, his cock twitched rock hard beneath her, and he laughed as he grabbed ahold of her arse and dragged her forward along the length of himself.

“I may just let him,” he said, with a strange look on his face.  “Let him see what he can’t have, there’s no harm in looking.  Good gods, woman, you want that, don’t you?  I’ve not felt you so wet in, oh, a day or two, at least.”

Sansa couldn’t even speak, she was so stunned by the way this conversation was going, not to mention the way she was sliding so smoothly along the length of Sandor’s manhood.  She just shook her head, but it was by no means a denial.

Sandor went on, “We’d have to get rid of the wench though, she’d positively throw me off my game.  Come now, think of some task for her.”  

He moved Sansa by the hips, angling her so he could enter, and she made a small noise of protest.  He stopped, but only to torment her, as he froze while already halfway inside her.

“What, you’ve lost your taste for it?  Humor me, little bird.”

Sansa let him guide her body down, and when she was fully seated, she sighed and simply laid down over his body.  He made no move to begin, but simply wrapped his arms around her, stroking her back, callused fingers gently massaging the nodes of her spine.  It felt wonderful, but she was still thinking about the other thing.

“You truly wish to do this?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he replied.  “It is the absolute worst thing I can imagine, short of him actually having you...now that my brother’s dead.  Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you enjoy it.”  

“I highly doubt that,” she said.  “Why must you always torment yourself?  Can’t you ever just enjoy the good in life?”

He didn’t say anything back, but just pulled her hips down as he thrust upward.  Sansa cried out, and Sandor gave her a light smack on the bottom.

“You’ll do as I say, little bird, and that’s a fact.  Don’t you know there is no good, if you don’t have any bad to compare it to?”

 _I suppose that sort of makes sense, but it doesn’t seem like...that sounds awfully like something Littlefinger would say._   She didn’t argue anymore, though, just gave herself over to it.  She raised up off of his body, and began to grind herself down, moving her hips in a slight figure eight.  She leaned back slightly, gripping his legs with her arms, and he took the opportunity to reach down and caress that most sensitive pearl of flesh, and she could feel him touching himself, too, as he rubbed her little nub.  It made her breath come short and heavy, was almost too much, but was really just right.  She could hear a knocking, it must be her heart, or the bedposts, but no...

Sandor stopped his rubbing, and stilled her body, smiling at her pout of protest.  She could hear the knocking still, it was someone at the door.

\-----------------------

“My lady, Sansa?  May we come in?”  It was Brienne’s voice, as lovely as she was not, and by the sound of it she had Jaime with her.

Sansa glanced down at Sandor, who was studiedly not meeting her eyes.  He reached up to cup her breasts, and began to tweak her nipples.  She could feel the wetness from her own body lingering on his fingertips.  She closed her eyes, and imagined Jaime Lannister leaning against the wall, next to the fireplace, watching as she rode Sandor or as he bent her over on the bed and took her from behind.

“Sansa, my lady? Is all well? Pod is incomprehensible, I can’t understand what you want us to do.  Sandor quite frightened the poor lad.”

“Brienne, dear, I need you to go and do something for me,” Sansa called out.  “My new...employment, requires me to have a much finer horse.  Go to the Master of Coin, tell him the queen has promised me one for my name day, and he’ll give you whatever coin you need.  Then, you must go and find me the best grey dapple you possibly can, do you understand?  I’ll be riding tomorrow, and it must be an exquisite horse.  Just send Ser Jaime in here, I’d talk with him a minute.”

 _It is done...if he will stay. Oh, gods, what have I done?_   Sansa twisted her body to look at the door, although she could only see a sliver of it through the sitting room.  She could hear Brienne and Jaime having a low conversation, and he sounded annoyed.

“My lady,” Brienne sounded hesitant, “Ser Jaime is really a much better judge of horseflesh than me, and would surely drive a better bargain...” 

  
Sandor snickered at this and whispered, “Aye, wench, he’ll be a fine one to judge my filly here,” as he jostled her lasciviously on top of him.

“I’m the one riding you, I’m not a filly!” Sansa whispered back.  Then, louder, she said, “Just do it, Brienne, for me, please.  I know you’ll pick a horse I’ll actually like, one that will fit me.  Jaime would pick the best horse as he saw it, and it would likely throw me to my death.”

Sandor bucked his hips obscenely, as if to throw her off, and Sansa giggled helplessly.  She heard Jaime and Brienne exchange words again, and what could have been a slap on the shoulder or the rump.  Sandor raised his eyebrows at her, and she just shrugged.  Then the door creaked, and Jaime Lannister was striding into the sitting room.  She saw him look around in confusion, his golden hair longer than the last time she saw him. Sandor raised himself to a sitting position, while keeping himself joined to her, and put a firm arm around her, as if to hold her in place.  There really was no need, as her legs were wrapped around him, tight as a vise.

“In here, Lannister,” Sandor said.

Jaime strode in, stopping short when he saw them.

“What is this, some sort of joke?  Ah, maybe you need my help, Hound, to bring the lady satisfaction?”  

Jaime recovered his wits more quickly than Sansa would have given him credit for, and she checked the expression on Sandor’s face.  _Is this truly what he wants?_   But Sandor’s face was so calm, it could have passed for a mask.

“No, Kingslayer, she comes for me like your sister did for you.  That is to say, like a randy back alley slut,” Sandor had aimed that right at the one chink in Jaime Lannister’s golden armor.  Jaime said nothing, he merely bared his teeth in a poor parody of a smile.

“Isn’t that right, little bird?”  Sandor was whispering in her ear now, a husky rasp.

She felt a little embarrassed, but surprisingly, it made the slick spot between her legs even wetter than before.  She knew he felt it, when he gasped and bit down on her earlobe hard.  Her toes curled into the sheets, and she dug her nails into his back, hard, wanting to return the force he had used.

He turned back to Jaime, and said, “Now, then, Lannister.  You’ll stay right there, or wherever you like in the room, and watch.  You can have a wank if you like, you’re no man if my lady doesn’t get you hard as steel.  Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.  We may have a mind to hear your thoughts, or may not.  Any questions?”

“I could use a good wank, Brienne has a most rough stroke-,”

“That’s enough, you bloody fool.  If you want a wank, have at it.  But keep your damn mouth shut while you do,” Sandor rasped impatiently.

“As you wish, Hound.  My lady,” Jaime nodded at her solemnly, making her giggle a little.

“Now,” Sandor growled in Sansa’s ear, “as you were, little bird.  I believe you said something about riding me?”

Sandor laid back down, and Sansa arched her back and cried out.  He had been in her quite shallowly, but when he laid back, it had become a much deeper fit.  She made an indistinct sound in the back of her throat, and leaned back once again.  In the back of her mind, she recognized that she could hear both of the men in the room panting, but it was nothing compared to how she was feeling at the moment.  She took one of Sandor’s hands off her hips, and forcibly brought it to her crotch.  He knew what she wanted, and flicked firmly at the hardening nub of flesh, over and over again, making hard circles.

Sansa was bringing herself up to the very tip of Sandor’s manhood, and then slamming back down, over and over again, reveling in the sensation, when all of a sudden, she realized she was about to climax.  She brought herself up, up, up one last time, and then slammed down, grinding back and forth, throwing her head back in wild abandon.  She was moaning over and over, “Sandor, Sandor, oh gods, please, Sandor,” and she could feel his hands forcing her hips down even harder on his, so hard she’d have bruises.

As she caught her breath, Sansa could hear Jaime muttering.  Evidently, Sandor heard it as well, because he called out, “Lannister, I don’t recall asking your opinion.”

“Good gods, man, I’d have to be a eunuch to have no reaction to that!” Jaime was petulant, but still cracking jokes.

“That can be arranged, Kingslayer.”

“Go ahead and try, Hound.”

Sansa was starting to mislike the atmosphere in the room, so she deliberately squeezed Sandor, still rock hard inside her.  When he flinched and gave a little moan, she realized with a start that he had not climaxed with her.  Usually, once he felt her going, it sent him off as well.  She looked at him inquisitively, trying to intuit his next desire.  As she rocked against him, and heard him growl at Jaime Lannister, she came to the conclusion that there was really only one thing left to do.  He wanted it to be the best, and the worst, and she knew how to make that happen.

Sansa slid off of Sandor, ignoring his protesting voice and grasping hands.  She went to her hands and knees, looking directly at Jaime standing in front of her, and arched her back to let Sandor get a good view.  He lightly spanked one round cheek, and she bit her bottom lip with a whine, as she pressed back against him, wanting him back inside.  

He laughed in understanding then, a harsh sound, and said, “Oh, aye, I’m the Hound all right, Lannister.  Don’t you wish you could have my little wolf-bitch, backing her arse up, grinding her wet cunt into you, like she is for me?  Ohhh...”

Sandor slammed into her then, hammering in and out with a ferocious need.  Sansa saw that Jaime’s eyes were glued to her, and Sandor behind her, and his hand was moving at an incredible rate along his cock.  She licked her lips, and saw his eyes widen, and she knew she could make him come.  She turned her face back, searching Sandor’s eyes, and saw that he was close as well.  She whimpered, begging him to finish, and he obliged her by moving even faster inside her.  He pulled her head back by the flaming brand of her hair, keeping her hips level with his other hand.  She was forced upwards, and found herself staring at Jaime again, although now he was watching her breasts bounce in time to Sandor’s thrusts.

She wanted this finished now, but she couldn’t just stop it, she had to see it through to the bitter end.  _One way to end this, only the one, as far as I can see,_ she thought.

“Come for me,” Sansa crooned.  “Mmm, yes, please come for me, darling...”

On her command, she watched as Jaime closed his eyes and spurted his seed on the floor, grunting once.  She was grateful that she didn’t have to look into his eyes as he climaxed.  She felt Sandor let go at the same time, buried deep inside her, pulling desperately at her hips with both his hands now, her hair tangled down her back in knots.  He was arching himself into her, unable to say even her name, only groaning incoherently.

She moved away from him after a moment, to let him know she wasn’t in the mood for this to continue, and she could feel his seed dripping down her leg.  _I’ll need to get moon tea...again,_ she thought. _Gods, I can’t wait to be married and never have to drink that again._

She crawled back to the head of the bed, and stretched herself out.  Sandor came up beside her, but sat leaning against the headboard, still shaking slightly with the force of his climax.  She closed her eyes as Jaime, now staring at the floor, tucked himself back in his breeches and wiped his hand on his cloak.

“Next time, shall we trade spots, then, Clegane?” Jaime’s words were joking, but his voice broke in the middle of the jest, somewhat ruining the effect.

“Out, get out damn you,” Sandor said hoarsely.  “You’re a bloody idiot, I should geld you right here and now.”

“If you think you can,” Jaime was fierce now.  “I take no orders from you, dog.  Our lady there, she’s the master of us all.  What say you, Lady Sansa, stay or go?”

“Leave us, Ser.  Come back with Brienne, but leave Pod behind.  Not for at least 30 minutes, though, please,” Sansa was weary, but she had to talk to them tonight, there would be no other chance.

Sansa did not open her eyes to watch Jaime leave, but she heard him shut the door softly behind him.  As soon as the door had shut, she turned to face Sandor.  He was sitting against the headboard and staring at the fire, toying with a lock of her hair, a glassy look in his eyes.  When she scooted close to him, he lifted one big arm up and tucked her underneath.  She could feel his breathing, tucked up against his ribs this way, and it felt ragged, uneven.  She traced the scars on his torso and arms, kissing some, stroking others with her fingers.

“This one,” she said, tracing a thin white line on his arm, “do you remember this one?”

“Yes,” he said, not even looking down.

“You didn’t even look, how do you know?  You have so many-“

“That’s the first scar I got protecting you, though not the last.  The mob, here in King’s Landing, the day they sent the Lannister whelp away.  I’ll never forget.”

“Did it hurt, then, when it happened?” Sansa was trying to go about something, but she didn’t know how.

“No,” he said flatly.  “It was nothing then, and it’s nothing now.  Look at all my scars, girl, they’re nothing.  Even my face...nothing.”

“I think your face is handsome,” she said, stretching up to plant kisses on the ruined flesh.  “I love your face.”

“You’re a damn fool, then.  A beautiful, clever little fool,” Sandor turned to look her in the eye now, tilting her chin up with a finger.  “And I love you, so don’t go getting yourself killed for Queen Daenerys, because I mean to marry you and make you happy every damn day until I die.  Understand, foolish little bird?”

“Yes,” Sansa replied, her eyes filling with tears.  _Gods, how I love this broken man,_ she thought.  “But, Sandor, tonight-“

“Don’t,” he said harshly, “don’t ever.  You have to have the bad, to appreciate the good.  We’ve had it, it’s done.  The rest of this queen’s farce will be nothing now, less than nothing.”

Sandor pulled her up onto his lap, and kissed her then, and touched her hair as if it were precious spun gold.  She let her hands drift up to cup his cheeks, remembering their first kiss, when she had touched his ruined cheek and found it covered with blood and tears.  She wasn’t surprised to feel tears there now.  This time, however, she didn’t pull away, but kept kissing him until all the tears stopped.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime gets drunk and snarky, Sandor puts him in his place. I hate writing summaries...

“Alright, now, little bird, you’ll be needing to get dressed, if the Beauty and her beast are coming to talk,” Sandor said.  

He was gentle, but insistent, so she got out of bed, and pulled on a robe.  He snorted at that, but dressed himself fully, as if to guard against any question of impropriety.  Sansa sat, and began to pull a brush through the tangled thicket of her hair, while Sandor stoked the fire back up and lit all the candles that had sputtered out.  She noticed that his hands barely even shook anymore, that the fire didn’t seem to have the same hold over him as it used to.  When he was done, she was still struggling with her hair, so he came and took the brush from her hand.  He pulled much harder than she did, but her hair crackled and blazed as he brushed, and it was like he was holding a tamed fire in between his hands.  

Just as he finished, a knock came at the door, and Sansa sighed.

“My lady, we’ve returned as you said, may we come in?” Brienne’s voice had an eager lilt to it, and Sansa realized that Jaime had not told Brienne what had occurred.  

Whether he had kept their secret out of embarrassment or his awkward sort-of-love for the woman, she couldn’t even begin to guess, but she felt a flood of relief at the realization.

When Brienne and Jaime came in, Sandor seated himself at the table with them, while Sansa remained standing.  He glanced significantly at the flagon of wine on the table, and when she nodded, he poured four glasses of it.  He and Jaime both threw theirs back in one long gulp, almost simultaneously, and quickly poured themselves more.  Brienne frowned at both of them, and took a small sip.  Sansa didn’t touch hers.

“My lady, I found you the most beautiful grey dapple!” Brienne was obviously thrilled with the horse she had procured, and it lifted Sansa’s heart to see her childish enthusiasm.  “She is on the small side, which is fine, as you’re not so big, yourself.  She’s sturdy and fast, and has a beautiful head.  Oh, I think you’ll look wonderful on her, in Stark colors.”

Sansa’s heart wrenched at that, thinking of all the colors she had had rights to, and the only ones she wanted, but she kept it from her face.

“Thank you so much, Brienne, I knew you would find me the perfect horse.  Does she have a name already, or shall I name her?”

“Oh, that’s the best part...she’s got a name, and when I heard it, I knew she was your horse.  Her name is Lady, like your wolf, my lady!”

The name hit Sansa like a punch in the gut; Sandor put his wine glass down, as if to reach out to her, but she only smiled.

“Well, then of course, she was meant to be my horse this whole time.  Good job, Brienne, I’m sure she will be just perfect tomorrow.”

The time had come, Sansa knew, that she had to tell them everything.  She had already informed the queen of her plans to take them into her confidence, and the queen had acquiesced, although she had an abiding hatred for Jaime Lannister.  Sansa could see no clever way to tell it, so she just said it.

“The reason I called you back is plain.  Queen Daenerys has ordered me to spy for her, as Mistress of Whispers, and-“

Jaime interrupted her.  “Hold.  What about Varys? I thought he was the one who had been scheming to get her back here this whole time.  Does she not trust the eunuch?”

“Would you, ser?”

Jaime merely tilted his wine glass at her, as if to say, “Cheers, you’ve got the right of it.”  Brienne sat simply listening, waiting to hear what her part would be.

“As I was saying, I’m to spy for her.  Mainly, she wants to know the secrets people keep.  Secrets, like say, Sandor’s and mine.  But mainly of more dangerous matters, I’m afraid,” Sansa said, with a small smile towards Sandor.

Brienne gasped.  “She knows, my lady?  I told you it was unwise to send us away, that people would talk when it was just the two of you.”

Jaime snorted into his wine glass, he was on his fourth cup now, drinking hard and fast.  “Brienne, darling, I think it was rather more the way they share a bedchamber and the same two feet of air every second of the day, and not just general proximity.  Let’s not blame ourselves here.”

Sandor aimed a kick at Jaime under the table, the wine in his glass sloshing messily onto his sleeve.  Jaime kicked back, his wine going onto the table and towards Brienne.

Sansa shot them both a look, and they stopped, both looking sullen.

“As much as I hate to admit it, Jaime’s probably right,” Sansa said.  “All that has to end now.  You three will rotate as my daily guard, with at least two of you going with me whenever I’m outside the walls of the keep.  The daily guard will be a weekly rotation, and who ever is on duty will sleep here, in Sandor’s chamber off of my own.”

All three of Sansa’s sworn shields snorted at that.  ‘Sandor’s chamber’, as she called it, was ostensibly where he slept as her guard, a little room off the main bedchamber, it had a cot and a slit window.  He hadn’t slept there once since they’d come to King’s Landing.  Sansa blushed a little, but she held her head high.

“Well, you will, whichever it is of you, from week to week.  The other two, along with Podrick, can sleep down the hall, in the maid’s chambers,” she said.  Then, thinking of what she said, she continued, “Since I’ve moved the maids down the hall, that is.”  

Sandor’s face grew grim, but he didn’t say a word.  Jaime and Brienne, however, had puzzled looks on their faces, and she could tell that she would have to be more explicit, if they were to truly understand.  Before she could begin, Jaime began a jest, seemingly trying to lighten the mood, although she could see the cruel glint in his eyes.

“Well, now, lady, I can understand why you’d not want me, a cripple,” he flourished his golden hand, “or Brienne, a modest lady, in your bed.  But, surely, Sandor...you’ve not refused him before.  Have you tired of your dear old hound?”

Sandor was on Jaime in half a heartbeat, first throwing his glass of wine in his face, and then following that with a lightning-quick jab that connected solidly with Jaime Lannister’s fine patrician nose.  Which was now quite obviously broken, as wine and blood flowed freely together down his face.  Brienne made a move to help Jaime, but Sansa put her hand out to stop her.  Jaime sat on the floor, amidst the wreckage of a broken chair, tenderly touching his nose, while Sandor merely picked up the flagon of wine and poured himself a glass to replace the one he had wasted.

“You deserved that, Jaime,” she said.  “Are you quite done now?”

“He broke my damn nose! Gods, I’ve never broken my nose before.  Does it look horrible?  What am I saying, I’ve only got one hand, who gives two shits about my nose?!” Jaime was on the verge of hysterical, drunk and bleeding.

Sansa nodded at Brienne, who hauled him up off the floor and took his face in both hands.  She touched his nose with an odd gentleness for such a big woman, and then frowned.

“Hold still, Jaime.  Here, drink my wine. Yes, drink it all down, that’s right.  Now, hold verrry still,” Brienne intoned all this in a calm voice, and so Sansa was horrified at what she did next.

Brienne took Jaime’s nose in her hands, and wrenched it back into place with an audible crunch.  It sounded even worse than the original breaking had.  Sandor laughed to hear it, and both Brienne and Sansa frowned at him.  Blood poured down Jaime’s face at a renewed rate, and Sansa could see that he would have two splendid black eyes in the morning.  _Serves him right,_ she thought, but immediately felt bad, as she remembered the probable reason for his foul mood.

“But, to get back to the reason you’re all sitting here, destroying my lovely sitting room.  Jaime, you’re actually right about this, for once-“

He interrupted her again, slurring his words drunkenly now, “Wha? That it looksh horrible? Or that nobody givesh two shits? Or both?”

“Damn it, Lannister, both!  But that wasn’t what I was talking about.  When you said I’d tired of Sandor...you were trying to be cruel, but that’s exactly what I, we, must make people think,” Sansa was growing impatient, and she desperately wanted to go to bed.

“Oh. Ohhhh.  Wait, whaa?” Jaime looked at the others confusedly.

Brienne, by the sad look on her face, seemed to get it, but obviously Jaime the Drunkard needed it spelled out.

“Jaime, listen very carefully.  I am going to spy for the queen,” Sansa began.

Jaime nodded his head slowly, and she could see that he was focusing on her words.  _Thank the gods, I do NOT want to explain this again,_ she thought.

“I am a woman, and must use the tools the gods gave me, you see...”

She saw it click in his eyes, and he spit on the floor.

“You sound like my sister.  You’re like her in more ways than a few, I think.  Well, yes, I see now, Sandor can’t share your bed because you’ll be sharing it with others.  And the three of us will take turns sitting ten feet away, listening,” Jaime’s voice was precise in his rage, his drunken slurring disappeared.  

He turned to Sandor now, “Oooh, I know, maybe if we move the cot to the other wall, we can watch her fucking Lancel, and all the fucking Kettleblacks, and Moon Boy, too!  We can watch, you can watch, I can watch...oh, I can watch, I can...,” Sansa glanced at Sandor nervously, but his face was impassive.

“Seven bloody hells, you are Cersei come again.  Beautiful, and horrible and cruel.  I’d just as soon kill you as look at you,” he ended with a sob and spit on the floor again.

Sandor got up when Jaime fell silent, and Brienne rose swiftly with her hand on her sword.

“I’ll not hurt him, wench, he’s drunk and it’s a bad business.  I can’t fault him how he feels.  Can’t say I don’t feel the same way, really,” Sandor spoke low and hard as he picked Jaime up bodily off the floor.  

Brienne forgot her sword, and went to help with the dead weight of Jaime Lannister, who had passed out cold.  They dragged him out the door, blood still dripping from his face, as Sansa stared at their backs, the backs of the only three people she had left in the world.

Her mind was spinning, but when it stopped, they were still only steps outside the door.  Her idea was horrible and cruel, as Jaime had named her, but she called out to them all the same.

“Stop!  Bring him back in.  All of you come back in.”

They edged back in the door, and Sansa stared at the three of them, Jaime with his arms around the shoulders of the other two, golden head hanging low.  She bit her lip, trying to decide, and then she did.

“He’s got first week’s watch.  Leave him here.  On the cot, of course,” her voice was cold, and it did not waver.

Sandor stared at her with incredulous eyes, and Brienne with dull, uncomprehending ones, but they did as she said.  As they dragged him through the bed chamber, and to the small room on the other side, Sansa rooted around her sewing kit and found an old rag.  She followed them into the chamber, where Sandor unceremoniously dumped Jaime on the cot.  Brienne, more solicitous, took to removing his boots and sword belt.  

Sansa handed her the rag. “For his face,” she said, hesitating.  “Brienne, you may stay here with him tonight, if you wish.  I don’t know how it is between you, but...well, Sandor will be staying with me.  So, it is only fair...” Sansa drifted off, unsure of Brienne’s reaction.  

“Thank you, my lady.  I will be gone before the sun rises,” Brienne said.

Sansa merely nodded in reply, and took Sandor by the hand, pulling him out into the bed chamber.  There was no door in between the small room where Brienne tended to Jaime, and the larger bedchamber, so Sansa and Sandor went to stand in front of the crackling fire.  It was as much privacy as they were going to get, without going back into the ruined sitting room.

Sansa thought for a second, _How can I best explain this?  He’ll be angry no matter what I tell him, will he still stay tonight?_   As she stood biting her lip, Sandor stared moodily into the flames.  He held his hands out to it, though it wasn’t particularly cold in the room, and Sansa saw that they were trembling, just a little.  She took his hands in hers and began to place kisses at his knuckles.

“Thanking me for breaking that bastard’s nose, are you?  I felt like a green boy, using my fists instead of my sword.  It felt good as hell, little bird.”

“Sandor, let me explain-“

“Don’t bother.  I think I understand the gist of it.  You need him first because he’s a mess about it, and if he’s not close, you can’t control him.  Brienne can control him, maybe better than you, but if you leave the two of them together, it ruins your plan.  And if you take Brienne first, and leave him and I together...well, obviously you know better than that.”

“Exactly,” she said, relieved he understood.  “The whole point of bringing them back was to split you and I up.  It has to be either Brienne or him first, and then the other second, and possibly for the third week as well.  Jaime is the better choice for now.  But eventually, you know, you two will be alone together.  May I have your word that you won’t kill him or, I don’t know, maim him...at least, not too excessively?  I’ll get the same promise from him in the morning, it’ll be fair.”

Sandor laughed at her, but promised her all the same.  “But what is too excessive?  Wait, don’t answer.  I’d rather beg forgiveness, than ask permission.  And don’t bother with his promise.  If you mean to be fair, he should get a shot at my nose.”

“No!  I like your nose!”  This only made Sandor laugh harder, though.

Sansa laughed with him then, and they were still laughing as they lay back in bed.  Sansa drowsily imagined her own long-dead parents, laying in bed one winter’s night, laughing and kissing.  _One day,_ she thought, _we won’t be laughing about the definition of excessive maiming, as pertains to one of our own loyal men. Or maybe we are that much of a horrible, twisted pair, that we will.  I don’t much care, as long as we’re together._

“Little bird?” Sandor’s face was buried in her hair again, and his words rumbled directly in her ears.  “Sansa?”

“Shhhh, quieter now.  What is it, my love?”

“Sing for me, will you?”

“Sandor,” she sighed.  “It’s late now, and Brienne is likely still awake...”

“I meant a real song.  The one from the night of the Blackwater, do you remember?”

She didn’t answer his question, but merely started singing The Mother’s Hymn.  She could feel his breathing slow, and his body relax, as the soothing balm of the song washed over him.  The act of singing soothed her as well, and as the song came to an end, she drifted into a deep sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wakes to a new day and a new man. Also, memories...

When Sansa awoke in the morning, she was alone in the bed, but not in the room.  Jaime Lannister, resplendent with his golden armor and two black eyes, was lounging in a chair by the fire, staring pensively at an apple core before flipping it into the fire.

“G-good morning, Ser.  You’re up early, considering...” Sansa thought better of finishing that particular statement.

“You mean considering how piss-drunk I got last night, or considering how your rabid dog knocked me out cold?”

That wasn't exactly how he had come to be passed out, as far as Sansa remembered it, but she wasn't going to argue the point now.

“Well, both, I suppose,” Sansa replied tentatively.  “Jaime, I am sorry.  For Sandor.  For...everything.”

“Forgiven,” he said carelessly.  “You, and the wench, and, aye, even your precious Sandor, are all I’ve got in this world.  As sad and pathetic as that is, facts are facts.  So, do with us all as you like, we’ll not complain...overmuch.”

Sansa felt so badly for him, she knew how it felt to have no family left.  She climbed out of bed, wrapping a sheet around her as she did so, and went to stand by him.  She draped her arms loosely about his neck, standing behind him, and rested her auburn head atop his golden one.  He leaned back into her and rubbed his cheek against her arm, his stubble rasping pleasantly against her soft skin.  She kissed the top of his head, where his hair swirled in a cowlick, and moved around to stand opposite him in front of the fire.  

 _He’s my family now, him and Brienne, and Sandor..._ Sansa made herself stop thinking, as she could feel her maudlin tendencies rising.  _That’s enough of that, and in any case, not entirely true.  Rickon’s back at Winterfell, and Jon at the Wall._   Unsurprisingly, that didn’t make her feel any better; Rickon was the Lord of Winterfell in name only, and was wild beyond almost all control, while Jon was...complicated.  She put all those thoughts from her head, and smiled at the man sitting in front of her, although he was not the man she wished for.

“Well, my lady, what is our mission today?  Last night you mentioned a ride, who do we ride with?” Jaime asked.

“I’ve changed my mind about the ride, although I am definitely going to visit my new horse,” Sansa said eagerly.  “Have you seen her?”

“She’s lovely, and very sweet-tempered.  In fact, I saw them stabling her next to that monstrosity that Sandor rides, and it reminded me of the two of you.  A proper little lady, as it were, next to a massive, mean-tempered brute.  Brienne didn’t find it very funny, the woman has no sense of humor.”

“Well, let’s go see her first thing.  Then, I mean to go to court, and just let things unfold.  I think the mere fact of having you there, looking-“ she gestured, as he interrupted.

“Like I got into a fight over your honor?  That’s what I was thinking the story would be...” Jaime said.

“Well, looking like that, anyway,” Sansa said.  “Let’s let people think what they want.  If they ask you, just do that face you do.  You know the one where you look superior and suggestive, at the same time?  It’s quite effective.  They’ll probably all think Sandor did it to you anyway, but I do love it when you make that face.”

“You mean this one?” Jamie said, and pulled a face.  “Yes, that is my specialty.  Superiority and lewdness, at your command, woman.”

Sansa giggled as she moved away from the fire and began pulling clothing out, trying to decide what to wear.  She shooed Jaime out into the sitting room.  Somebody, probably Brienne, had thoughtfully straightened it up, although she was now short one chair.  As she dressed, Sansa realized it was a little harder to do on one’s own, without a maid, or Sandor, to help her with laces and ties.  She eventually was able to finish, but she decided she would have to get at least one maid back, or else resort to letting Jaime do up her laces for her every three weeks.  _Not bloody likely,_ she thought, _especially with only one good hand._   But the thought of it made her think of him undoing her laces, which made her feel queasy.

As she put the final touches on, she went to her jewelry box to pick out a necklace.  When she opened it up, a smile lit up her face.  Nestled atop her jewelry was a small carved canine, made to look as if it were sitting on its haunches, head thrown back in a howl.  _Why, it could be a wolf or a dog,_ Sansa thought, _but I think it’s a dog._

The dog was made of dark, almost black wood, and Sansa recognized it immediately.  Sandor had a little bird figure, made from the same type wood, that he had carved years ago while living on the Quiet Isle; the dog was more roughly made, but obviously fashioned by the same hand.  The fact that he had made this one, secretly, and tucked it away for her to find, on this of all mornings, touched her heart and put some strength in her limbs.  Sansa tucked the little dog into a pouch at her waist, and hummed a little tune as she went out to Jaime Lannister.

Together, Sansa and Jaime went to see her new horse, the grey dapple called Lady.  Sansa was very pleased with her, and happily spent some time feeding her sugar cubes and braiding her mane.  Finally, she gave the horse a pat goodbye, and turned to find that Jaime was not by her.  She looked around, and spotted him leaning in a doorway, the sun glinting off his armor and hair alike.  As she walked down the long stable towards him, she heard the sounds of fighting, and realized he was watching a training match in the yard.  When she got close, he held his arm out and said,

“Wait, lady.  I’d not have you distract either of them, I’ve bet a dragon on the wench.”

Sansa was confused.  “Who is fighting, Ser?  Brienne is training with the knights?  I thought they scorned her?”

Jaime chuckled, and glanced back at her.  “Oh, they do.  Probably because she’d beat half of them.  She’s fighting Clegane, though, which makes it interesting.  I do believe he’s going easy on her, though.”

Sansa just sighed.  She had enough to do, she didn’t want to watch two of her own people fighting each other, even if it was in the name of training.

“On second thought, my lady,” Jaime said, “maybe you should come up here.  Distract the dog, and I’ll win my bet.  I’ll buy you a ribbon for your hair with my winnings, if you like.”

“Oh, shut up, Jaime,” Sansa replied.  “Leave them to it, we must needs be going to court now.  And remember what I said before...hold your tongue.”  _I speak too sharply,_ she thought.  _I shouldn’t lose my courtesies, even now, most of all now._   But she didn’t apologize; sometimes a sharp word worked better than a kind one, she had learned.

He raised an eyebrow at her sardonically, gave a mockingly low bow, and offered her his arm.  However, when she took it, he led her through the open door he had been standing in, rather than go back the way they had came.  She saw at once that Sandor and Brienne were both fighting hard, but nowhere near full speed or strength.  However, when Jaime led her past them at a sedate pace, with her arm tucked through his, they both dropped their blunted swords and kneeled to her.

“Please, rise, and continue,” she told them.  “I told Ser Jaime I did not wish to disturb you,” she threw him a reproachful look, “ as you both looked to be fighting very well.”

Sandor merely inclined his head, nodding thanks, and did not meet her eyes.  It hurt more than Sansa had thought it would, and she touched the pouch at her belt that held her little dog.  Brienne was laughing, though, so Sansa focused her gaze on her.

“No, my lady, Sandor was thrashing me.  I only hope to learn from him, so that I may better serve you.”

Sansa smiled gently at the large woman, and said, “Very well said, my dear.  You are a credit to your house, and to my service.  Now, I must get to court.  As you were, you two.”

And with that, she walked away, towing Jaime Lannister in her wake.  As they walked away, the clash of steel on steel started up again.  In Sansa’s mind, it sounded rather more energetic than before, and she wondered how angry Sandor was at the moment.  She was rather angry herself, at Jaime, for forcing that confrontation, or whatever it was, so early in the day.

“That was mean-spirited, Ser,” Sansa said.  “And I’ll thank you not to do that again.  Don’t rub it in his face.”

“That’s rich,” Jaime replied, his voice low.  “Considering what the two of you, or the three of us, did last night.  Seems as though he rubbed it in my face, wouldn’t you say?”

Sansa didn’t reply, just squeezed his wrist lightly with her small hand.  He wasn’t wrong, but she didn’t have any idea how to address it.  She had thought Jaime had gotten over this long ago, and maybe he had, until last night.  She remembered how he had pressed his suit to her, after the three of them had first rescued her.  

\--------------------------------

Jaime had pressed her to marry him, pressed hard, out of what he claimed was a desire to honor his dead brother, her first husband, by protecting her.  Sansa thought that might have been a small part of it, but she could also see desire for her in his eyes, and she imagined he desired her claim as well.  She also knew that he considered fulfilling his oath to her mother to save her, Sansa, to be the only good and honorable thing left in his life; she could see how that might translate into a sort of love, although she did not believe he truly loved her, not romantically.

Still, she had considered for some time, not believing that she’d ever have any other chance at a marriage or children.  Jaime’s golden good looks were somewhat faded, but he was clever and devoted to her, and she could imagine them having a...content life.  Sansa tried not to think about Brienne’s face when Jaime would flirt with her, or Sandor’s either.  Sandor didn’t say a word about it to her, although she couldn’t help but noticing how very often he pulled out his whetstone and commenced to sharpening his sword.  Most often, he would do it when Jaime would begin his gentle flirting with Sansa.  

Sansa considered Jaime’s offer, and his mostly chaste advances, a kiss or a touch, right up until the moment that Sandor’s brother found them in the Riverlands.  The entire kingdom had thought Gregor Clegane dead, his head in a box in Dorne; when Sandor saw the thing that had been his brother, before that man died, he had laughed long and hard, a truly horrible sound.  Jaime and Brienne, thinking the Hound had gone mad, tried to hold Sansa away from him.  She had clawed and kicked at them, and finally she had wrenched free and run to him.

Gregor, or what was left of him, had been advancing on foot towards Sandor.  Sansa had run up to him and threw her arms around his waist, tears streaming down her face and slipping down his breastplate.  She begged him not to fight, to let Jaime, let Brienne, let someone, anyone else.  He had laughed at her, much more kindly than his mad laughter before, but still laughter.  She could hear Jaime and Brienne, afraid to get closer, screaming for her to get back.

“Little bird,” he had said, with such tenderness in his voice.  “There is no one but me.  You know that.  Run back to your bloody lion, quickly now.”  

He still hadn’t taken his eyes off his brother, and since she hadn’t let go of him, he was retreating from Gregor and trying to force her away.

Sansa felt both icy cold, and burning up.  When he had told her to run back to Jaime, to the lion, she had realized the truth.  She wanted him, she wanted Sandor, the Hound who had saved her life in King’s Landing and her maidenhood in Harrenhal.  

Gregor, clumsy in his new state of being, had been somewhat laid up by a large stream Sandor had put between him and them, so she had taken the chance of pulling his face down to look into her eyes.

“No,” she had told him, trying to find more, better words.  “You’re right, there is no one but you.”  

“NO!? What d’you mean no?  Seven fucking hells, get your arse back there now, girl.  I’ll not have you die in front of me, by his hand, of all things,” Sandor’s eyes had been so filled with rage, but she had seen something else there, too.  “I’ll kill you myself before I let him touch you.”

“Sandor,” she said.  “Please don’t die.  Please.  I don’t want Jaime.  I’ll go back now, but I’m not going to him.  I’m going to wait for you.”

Then she had stood on her tiptoes, yanked him down by the neck of his armor, and pressed a hard kiss onto his lips, feeling them twitch unnervingly on the burnt side.   She ran back to Jaime and Brienne, now hiding behind a tumbled-down wall.  Neither of them said a word about the kiss, although they had undoubtedly seen it.  

The three of them had held hands as they watched Sandor battle with his brother; they saw him administer a dozen of what would normally have been fatal blows.  At one point, Gregor fell for a period of time, after Sandor had slid his sword deep into a gap at the underarm of Gregor’s armor.  Sansa and Brienne had let out a ragged cheer, but Sandor had waved them back when they tried to go to him, and they saw what he had already seen...Gregor was rising again.

As Sandor began to visibly tire, bleeding from numerous slashes, and still was not able to overcome his brother, Sansa had been the one to have the idea.  Fire.  It had come to her because she had begun to think of Gregor as some wight or damnable Other from a story, who never died unless burnt up to ash.  She told Jaime and Brienne, and they got a fire going.  By this time, Sandor had managed to get Gregor down two more times, and shortly did it again, with a vicious hack to the tendons in his knee.  As soon as they saw him go down, Jaime and Brienne ran out to Sandor with flaming branches in their hands.  They would not let Sansa go, although she clutched a branch in her hand as well, splinters digging into her palm.

She saw them motion towards Gregor, who was just beginning to stir on the ground, with their branches.  She saw Sandor’s face, lit up by the flames, pull up in a grotesque version of a grin.  As Gregor was struggling to his feet, one leg flopping uselessly below him, Sandor stepped up to him and swung a savage two-handed blow at his neck.  It reminded Sansa, horribly, of the destrier Gregor had decapitated years before at the Hand’s Tourney.  

Gregor fell back, his head nearly detached from his body; Jaime and Brienne came up, and Brienne handed her torch to Sandor.  The two men, the hound and the lion, shoved the flaming branches at any bare spot they could find on what was left of Gregor Clegane.  He went up in flames like a barrel of pitch, and Sansa heard Sandor laughing his mad laughter again, louder even than the crackling sound of his brother burning.

Sansa had run to him then, past Jaime and Brienne, and right into his arms.  He was bleeding from his head, arms, and a nasty cut to his ribs, and she knocked him over when she hit him at a dead run.  He managed to fall to his knees, instead of straight on his back, and they had simply clung to each other there, in front of the burning mess of his twice-dead brother.  Once, Sansa would have been horrified at all of these things, the blood, the fire, the death...but that was before Littlefinger, before Alayne, before.  All she could think of was that he had survived, and she planted kisses all over his face, hugging him tightly to her.  She had felt bad later, when she realized the extent of the injury to his ribs, that she had been squeezing him so hard.

Eventually, Brienne came and helped Sandor rise, although Sansa would not leave his side.  Jaime went off to deal with the Lannister guards, the ones who hadn’t fled, and came back bearing food and a face white with emotion.  He told them what he had learned from the men in short, choking sentences, unable to find his breath long enough to speak as smoothly as normal.

The thing that was Gregor Clegane had not been roaming the realm on a whim, but had been sent by Cersei to destroy Sansa, who was still blamed for Joffrey’s death.  In defeating him, Sandor had fulfilled his life-long ambition and cleared her name, in one fell swoop.  Sansa had explained what she knew of Joffrey’s death to Jaime, who had not seemed to care overmuch, when they had first left Harrenhal.  So when he seemed grief-stricken while explaining this turn of events to them, she knew there must be more.

The guards had had a messenger, not a day past, from Mace Tyrell, styling himself the new Regent of the Queen, his daughter Margaery.  Jaime’s twin sister, his lover, Queen Cersei was dead.  So was Tommen, the young king, Margaery’s husband, Cersei and Jaime’s last living child.  Myrcella had died in Dorne not long before.  It was not apparent who had killed them, although at the time, Jaime had been sure it was Tyrion.  Later, when they had learned of his death, the common theory became a Faceless Man, but nobody ever knew for sure.  Cersei had made herself many enemies, and one of them had put her down like a mad dog.

Sansa remembered how Jaime had grieved, so intensely, at the loss of his remaining family.  He was like a walking corpse for days, although one much less violent than Gregor had been.  Brienne or Sandor had to put him in his saddle every morning, and Sansa would feed him spoonfuls of stew every night, as he would not even cut his meat.  Finally, one night as she fed him, his eyes focused on her and he seemed to see for the first time in days.  His voice had sounded as if it came from the bottom of a well when he spoke to her.

“I have lost all, everything that ever mattered to me.  You were my last hope, and even you will not have me.”

Sansa had tried to speak, but he kept going, right over her.

“I have nothing left, save my oath to your mother.  You are as safe now as you’ll ever be, but I’ve nothing else to hold onto.  Will you have my sword, at least, Lady Sansa, for as long as I live?  Would you let me keep what little honor I have left?”

She had nodded at him, speechless, and he had knelt before her and swore.  When Brienne saw him do it, she swore the same oath, although her eyes looked troubled.  Sandor had sworn himself to her in front of Petyr Baelish’s dead body, weeks ago, so he merely watched with hooded eyes and an unreadable expression upon his face.  

When it was done, Jaime had picked up the spoon in his stew and it was as if he had never been gone.  It was then that Sansa and Sandor began to feel out the beginnings of their relationship, picking their way though the rubble of two broken lives.  She had not thought that Jaime had clung to any feelings for her in the time since.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game begins. Sandor's a stubborn butthead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandor's on a binge, so he's MIA in this chapter...he'll be back soon, though ;)

“Sansa!” Jaime was jiggling her arm in a most undignified fashion, and had practically shouted her name.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Ser,” she said, coming out of her remembrances.  “I was just thinking back-“

“A stupid habit, that,” he interrupted.  “I try to avoid it, myself.  If I were you, I’d focus on the task at hand.”

And with that, she saw that they were at the door to the Great Hall.  People were coming and going busily, but no matter how many went out the doors, more streamed in; some may have had a matter to place before the queen, but most of them just wished to catch a glimpse of her and hear her pass judgement.  As they entered, she could hear people talking under their breath, and she knew they were talking about her, and the peculiar situation of her guard.  Jaime released her arm, retreating to a few steps behind her, and she began to move among the gathered nobles.  

Sansa started quite simply, just a kind word here or an admiration for a new dress there, little things that she was known for already.  Since she had first come to King’s Landing as a girl, she had always been known for her gentle courtesy and sweet nature, and she was well-loved for it.  Even after she had been charged with regicide, buried four husbands, and carried as guards two of the most hated men in the realm, Joffrey’s Hound and the Kingslayer, she was still received with smiles and kind words.  However, Sansa was no longer foolish enough to believe that this meant much of anything, as she once had.  Smiles could be false, most often were, and kind words became twisted and scheming behind closed doors.

Behind her, she could hear Jaime deflecting questions and making jests with the men of the court, and she hoped he was noting who had said what, who had stayed away, that sort of thing.  It was all going smoothly, until she got near the front of the hall, and saw Daenerys sitting on the Iron Throne.  The queen was reclining in the thing as if it were a comfortable lounging chair, and not made of a thousand swords, fused into dangerous points.  The queen’s Small Council was seated around her, but Sansa only paid attention to one: Varys, the Spider, Master of Whispers.  At the first sign of her, he had spoken quietly to the queen, and moved down off the dais and into the crowd.  

When Sansa saw him coming, she touched the pouch at her belt again, hoping to draw some strength from the little dog within.  She refused to let him gain the advantage to her, so she touched the arm of the next man she saw, eager to look occupied when Varys approached her.  Unfortunately for her, the man she had selected was Randyll Tarly, a hard man with no particular love for her, or women in general.  He didn’t pull away, however, but merely raised her hand to his lips perfunctorily.

“Lord Tarly,” she said.  “I am glad to see you looking well.  How are your wife and daughters finding the city?”

Randyll Tarly had only just brought his family to the city, although the wars of the realm had been settled for over a year.  Sansa thought it was most likely because he simply did not care to deal with them, but mayhap there was more to it than that.  _Careful, now,_ Sansa thought, _you’ll be seeing conspiracies everywhere._

“They find it very well, Lady S-stark, although the girls bother me relentlessly to find them husbands,” he replied testily.  “They wish to ride and hawk all the time, with green boys and singers.  I’ve half a mind to send them back to Horn Hill, just as not to hear their chattering all the time.”

She noticed how he stumbled over her maiden name; Lord Tarly was a rigid man, and no doubt thought she should go by her husband’s name, no matter that she had never consummated a single marriage.  She had to laugh a little at the image of his three daughters harassing this man, one of the finest battle leaders in the realm.  He frowned a little when she laughed, he was not a man used to being laughed at.

“Oh, I’m sorry to laugh, Lord Tarly,” Sansa said.  “Those poor girls though, court can be quite tedious if you’ve nothing to do.  Tell them I would be glad to ride with them any time, I’ve just gotten a beautiful new horse and I’d love to test her out.”

“I’ll tell them, Lady Stark, I’m sure they’d be glad of your company,” Tarly said.  “But, my lady, has one of your men examined this horse, made sure it is a good lady’s horse?” He glanced over her shoulder at Jaime, who was showing his golden hand to a Florent boy, by the look of the child’s ears.  “Women are no judge of horses, and you without a husband.  The men you surround yourself with, not to mention that woman...” he drifted off, not wanting to offend her, but still getting his meaning across.

Sansa bit her lip and glanced up at him with an unsure expression on her face.  She was gratified to see something, some odd expression, flit across his hard face.  She didn’t know what it meant, but it was clear she had some sort of effect on him.  _Maybe Randyll Tarly would be a place to begin,_ she thought.

“I’m sure one of my guards has looked at her, my lord, but they are all rather unsettled right now, as I’m sure you have noticed,” Sansa replied, injecting a brave tone into her voice.  Jaime’s two black eyes and broken nose were impossible to miss, and she knew stories were flying around the Keep as they spoke.

“I shall go and inspect her myself, later this afternoon,” Tarly said.  And with that, he abruptly bowed to her and strode away to speak with Mace Tyrell.

Not a moment later, Varys appeared from behind a fat red apple Fossoway lordling, and Sansa smiled at him brightly.  No need to let him think she was avoiding him, even if she didn’t feel up to tangling with him just yet.  As he approached, bowing ridiculously low, Sansa decided that she would let him lead, for now.  She could improvise well enough, and she was sure he already knew much of the situation anyway, though not the important parts.

“Good morning, Lord Varys,” Sansa chirped.  “How fare you this morning?”

“I am very well, indeed, my lady,” Varys replied.  “I am so happy to see you returned to the court, healthy and well again.”

The look on his face told Sansa that he knew, if not everything, at least that she had not been sick.  He had a simpering smile on his face, but she could see questions in his eyes as they flicked over her shoulder to rest on Jaime.

“And a good morning to you, as well, Ser Jaime,” Varys continued.  “Whatever has happened to your nose and eyes?  An accident in the training yard, perhaps?”

“Something like that,” Jaime replied noncommittally.  “I think it makes me look rather dashing and roguish, don’t you, my lady?”  He said this with a broad wink at Sansa, who couldn’t help but giggle.

She noticed Varys was watching the interaction between her and Jaime carefully, although he was pretending to laugh alongside her.

“Well, for all your injuries, you still cut a more handsome figure than our dear Lady Stark’s previous guard.  Tell me, dear lady, what has happened to the Hound?”  Varys was so blunt in his inquiry, Sansa caught herself frowning at his words.

“My lord, as my brother, the Warden of the North’s, envoy to Queen Daenerys’s court, I must needs have more than one guard, wouldn’t you agree?”  Sansa went on, before Varys could interrupt, “Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime simply had to make a short journey, but had planned on coming back already.  It is too much to ask of one man, even one as loyal as Sandor Clegane, to be my sole guardian.  Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne will lighten that load, as they have done since Harrenhal.”

Sansa thought she had made her point quite clearly: that she was not dismissing Sandor, only resuming a previous situation.  Truthfully, even when Jaime and Brienne had been with them, Sandor had been her primary companion for a long while.  It had just seemed less obvious when Jaime and Brienne had been around as well; they were good attention deflectors, the ugly lady knight and the handsome Kingslayer.  A younger Sansa may have thought of it as a humorous song or tale, but she hadn’t been that girl for a long time now.  It was no song, no tale; it was nothing but a ragged band of broken people, made family by choice, instead of blood.

Varys was spouting something at her, pretty words, but she was watching his eyes, and they were cold.  She had had her fill of court proceedings for the day, but she did need to present herself to the queen.  She waited for Varys to pause, and then excused herself politely, gesturing towards the Iron Throne.  She walked forward, the crowd leaving a pocket of space around her, as if she were still sick and contagious.  Queen Daenerys was smiling at her kindly as she approached, a friendly smile that reached all the way to her eyes.  They didn’t speak of anything important, just exchanged pleasant words and made a promise to sit together soon as they had before Sansa’s supposed illness.  And then Sansa moved away, and the queen saw the next person begging a favor or a judgement.

Sansa stayed in the Great Hall for some time, just getting the feel for the mood of the court.  She watched as Jaime moved about the room, orbiting around her presence, never straying far nor too close.  She realized that he would be very helpful to her in her new duties, probably more so than Sandor, and definitely more than Brienne.  

 _He was born to this life, and lived a lie from a young age,_ she thought.  _Sandor can often tell when people are lying, but he’s not comfortable with the intrigues of court like Jaime is._   Thinking of Sandor and Jaime in comparison made her feel distinctly uncomfortable and she decided she’d had enough of court for one day.

After escaping the Great Hall, Sansa dearly wanted to go back to her rooms, but she would not let herself.  She dragged Jaime along with her as she stopped in to see the Tarly sisters, inviting them to go riding the next day, and then paid a short visit to an ailing Lady Blackwood, fluffing her pillows and arranging a vase of flowers.  Finally, she allowed herself the luxury of returning to her own rooms, after Jaime pointed out that it was past dinner time, and she hadn’t eaten all day.  They had a quiet dinner in her sitting chambers; Sansa sent Jaime to invite the others to join them, but only Brienne and Pod came.

When their dinner was over, Sansa laid a gentle hand on Brienne’s arm, after sending Pod away.  “Brienne, when you return to your chambers, would you please send Sandor to me?  I would speak with him briefly.  It is quite ridiculous of him to not even come to dinner.”

“My lady...” Brienne’s voice was kind, but Sansa could tell she would mislike her words.  “I doubt he will be in the rooms.  I-I could go out and find him, if that is what you require, but I doubt he will be in any state for a lady to see.  He may fight me...” the large woman trailed off indistinctly, obviously not looking forward to fighting an angry and drunk Sandor Clegane.

“Are you saying he won’t see me?  Did he say that to you?  Brienne, what did he say, exactly?!” Sansa was trying to control her voice, but the hurt and anger were too much for her to manage, and she could see Brienne and Jaime exchange a look.

“My lady, Sansa,” Brienne began, and then tried again.  “Please, you must understand that he’s hurting.  He said a great many things, which I’ll not repeat, but he did say that he’d speak with you on his turn, and not before.  I’m sure he’ll come around...”

“No, he won’t,” Sansa’s voice was bitter.  “He’s the most stubborn, pig-headed man I’ve ever known.  If that’s what he said, then that’s what he’ll do.”

“Sansa,” Jaime’s voice was gentle, an unusual thing.  “Bile does not become you.  The man loves you, perhaps too much.  He’s sick with it, is all.  Trust me, I know what it is to love like that.  To love so completely, and yet not be able to have any outlet for it.  It does horrible things to a man, to a woman, too.”

It made her sick, and sad, to realize that he was talking about his own sister, and from the look on Brienne’s face, she had the same feeling.  Jaime didn’t seem to notice, though.  He was swirling a bit of spilled wine with one of his golden fingers, not meeting their eyes.  Sansa thought that maybe that was the most he had ever said about his unnatural relationship with his twin, and when Brienne got up and left abruptly, Jaime did not act surprised.

Sansa was too heartsick to ask many questions, but she had to know.  “Jaime, what is between you and Brienne?  I fear you have hurt her tonight.”

“No more than I have a hundred times before, and probably will a hundred times again, my dear.  I have a talent for it, it seems.  Don’t ask me what is between us, I haven’t the words for it, to be quite honest with you.”

“Well, shall you ever figure it out, do you think?” Sansa felt cruel to pry at him, but he had brought it up.

“Mayhap, one day.  I don’t imagine it will be any time soon though, with our present occupation,” he gestured at her, “no offense meant, of course.  And we were on Tarth long enough to find that while the Evenstar welcomes his daughter and any companion of hers, the Kingslayer would never be welcomed as lord of the Sapphire Isle.”

Sansa hid her shock that things had even progressed that far, that they would have spoken of marriage or inheritance.  Daenerys had stripped the inheritance of Casterly Rock from Jaime, as well as his lifelong commitment to the Kingsguard; if Brienne’s people would not accept him, they had nothing.  As he had said before, nothing but their little cobbled-together family.  It was a sad thought, in truth.

“But that’s enough sadness for one night, don’t you think?  Shall I stoke your fire for you before bed?”  Jaime’s voice was light, but Sansa caught the double entendre and frowned.  

Jaime laughed at her face.  “A jest, a jest, my lady!  But truly, do you want me to stoke the fire?  It grows cold, and you’ll have no warm body beside you tonight.”

That made her sadder than ever, and she could only nod at him as she went to her bedchamber.  He gave her a minute to change into a shift, and then came in to build her fire up.  She sat up in her big bed, feeling so lonely and abandoned, and watched as he clumsily rearranged the logs and added kindling.  When he was done, he turned to face her, and she tried to hide her sadness, but she saw it reflected in his own face.

“Thank you, ser,” Sansa said.  “You put me in mind of my brother Robb, just then.  He would always build fires for Arya and I, when we were too little.”

“He was a good brother, then,” Jaime’s tone seemed to suggest that he wished he had been that sort of brother.

“Yes,” she replied.  “Do you know what Rickon said to Sandor when we came to Winterfell, after he had been returned?”

Her non sequitur was left hanging in the hot air of the room for a second, before Jaime shook his head, confused, and Sansa continued.

“He told Sandor that if he ever hurt me, he would have Shaggy Dog tear his heart out and eat it.”

“Alas, I have no direwolf, my lady, and wouldn’t risk going up against Clegane with anything less.  I’m sorry, but you’ll not have his heart from me,” Jaime said, jauntily enough, though his eyes were kind.

“Rickon’s a horrible beast, as wild as his wolf.  I don’t want you to be like him...” Sansa didn’t want to have to ask for what she wanted, she wanted Jaime to understand what she was saying.  

 _Why is this so difficult?  Why am I even asking this of him?_ Sansa knew it must seem queer to him, as his version of brotherly love had been twisted from a young age, but a brother would try and ease her pain.  Robb would have tried to ease her pain.

After what seemed like an age, understanding dawned on Jaime’s face.  He put down the poker he had been stoking the fire with, and came to sit beside her on the bed, carefully staying above the blankets.  At first, he only put a tentative arm around her shoulder and patted her there.  But when she began to cry, wracking sobs that she somehow managed to keep silent, he held her in his lap with both arms tight around her, her head tucked under his bristly chin.  Sansa felt, rather than heard, him whispering soothing words, breath riffling her hair, lips pressed along her part.  Finally, she was able to match her breathing to his own, calming her panicked crying.  He continued to hold her though, not speaking now, and if she closed her eyes, ignored the cold shining hand at her shoulder, it almost could have been Robb.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets her dog back :D

Sansa passed three weeks after the fashion of that first day, although after the second week, she switched Jaime up for Brienne at her back.  The two weeks with Jaime guarding her had been both exhilarating and horrible.  Exhilarating because her new occupation was very demanding, and Jaime excelled at it almost as much as she did.  It took her mind off of Sandor when she was discussing a person’s motives, behavior, or facial tics with Jaime.  She found that he was an able reader of body language, but that the two of them often disagreed on the meaning of a smile or a gesture; this lead to many detailed discussions on the relevance of a crinkled nose or a limp handshake, and Sansa actually enjoyed these discussions.  Horrible, well, for the obvious reason that she wanted badly what she could not have.

Brienne, while less proficient in matters of intrigue, brought her own strengths to Sansa’s cause.  She was much less acerbic than Jaime, which made dealing with many people a great deal easier.  As a woman, albeit a strange one, men were more likely to underestimate or ignore her, where they might be suspicious of Jaime.  Sansa also found that Brienne had her own way of observing things: a more innocent view of the world than either Sansa’s or Jaime’s, to be sure, but still worth cultivating and respecting.  While Sansa didn’t ask the same comfort from her as she did from Jaime, the big woman too awkward to truly be comforting, she still found a sense of ease in sitting with Brienne by candlelight and discussing the day’s events.  

By the end of the third week, Sansa had also become a close friend to the Tarly girls, and was often in their company.  They were incredibly jolly girls, for all that their father was a stern and rigid man.  Sansa often rode out with them, taking both Jaime and Brienne as guards; the Tarly girls were more likely to take singers or young knights, as their father had complained of.  They invited Sansa to dine with them almost every night, and she did so at least twice a week, enjoying the company of the silly girls and their wonderfully gentle mother.  She couldn’t say she enjoyed the company of Randyll Tarly, but he was loosening up around her, and Sansa thought she might learn something from him yet.

Some nights, Sansa would invite the girls to dine in her chambers, and they would stay with her, all squeezing together in her big bed, and talk until late into the night.  Sansa found out many secrets, but none of the kind that would interest the queen, she was sure.  Queen Daenerys did not care that this singer had kissed that lady, or that so-and-so’s squire was in love with a serving girl.  Sansa kept track all the same, remembering Littlefinger’s lessons that all information was coin, and could be useful at the right juncture.

It was a night like this, when the three Tarly girls had come for dinner, and were deciding whether or not to stay, that Brienne pulled Sansa aside for a moment.

“My lady, tonight is the changing of the guard,” Brienne said.  “Is it still to be Sandor tonight?  I was supposed to return after dinner, and tell them which was to come.”

“Yes, thank you for reminding me,” Sansa replied.  “I still want Sandor.”

Brienne made as if to leave, but Sansa put a hand out to stop her.

“Wait,” she said.  “I’d have your advice, before you go.  Should I send the girls back to their own rooms, or would that look too suspicious?”

Brienne thought a moment, and then said, “I’d send them back, but do it while I’m still here.  They’ll see tomorrow that the guard has changed, but they won’t know it happened tonight.  In fact, I could come back in the morning if you wish, and we could “change up” again.”

Sansa smiled at Brienne, pleased with the other woman’s clever thinking, and pleased that she hadn’t suggested the Tarly girls stay to help dispel rumors.  

It was an easy thing to send them away, claiming cramps from her moon’s blood.  All three embraced her tenderly, and would not leave until they had tucked her into bed with a heated stone at her feet, and had the fire blazing.  Brienne stood watching awkwardly, always so unsure of herself around such feminine creatures, until they had closed the door behind them and their merry laughter drifted off down the hall.  As soon as they were out of hearing, Brienne took her leave of Sansa, and went to find Sandor.

Sansa was nervously twisting a corner of the blanket, worrying at a loose thread, when she heard the door open with a creak.  Her stomach turned queasily, and she couldn’t decide whether to jump out of bed and run to him, or to hide under the covers like a frightened child.  Before she could do anything, he was in the room, and there was a tightness in her chest, a sharp ache.  She could feel tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, and her hands were clenched tightly at the blankets.  But he just stood there, looming at the foot of the bed, not saying a word, staring at her.  She knew if she tried to talk, she’d burst into tears, and she was determined not to do that.

Finally, he spoke, and it was not what she expected.

“Seven hells, it’s hotter than R’hllor’s fiery balls in here, woman!  And you have blankets on the bed, as well? Are those Tarly girls White Walkers, made of ice, that they are so cold at night?”

Sansa laughed, but the sheer emotion got the best of her, and she began to cry as well.  She was still laughing, but tears were streaming down her face as well, and she resented the fact that she had been trying so hard not to cry, and he had somehow brought her to it anyhow.  _Did he have to make a joke of it? Couldn’t he have just come to me, and kissed me?_

For a moment, she didn’t think he would come to her.  She was crying all alone in bed, in their bed, and he stood looking at her from the foot of it.  She closed her eyes, tears squeezing out under her lashes, willing herself to stop crying, and failing.  She heard him sigh, and then she felt him sit on the side of the bed, his weight sinking the bed down, and making her roll closer to him.

“Open your eyes, girl,” Sandor’s voice was as gentle as it could be.  “Come here now, and stop that crying.”

She did as he said, scooting closer to him.  The tears wouldn’t stop altogether, but she managed to settle down enough to talk.  He still wasn’t touching her, she noticed, even though she was sitting almost right next to him.  She laid her hand on his forearm, wanting him to touch her back.  It was his burnt arm, and she could feel the slick scars under her fingers, smooth and horrible.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to cry.  I know this whole thing is my doing, I just...” Sansa drifted off.  She wasn’t sure she was supposed to be the one apologizing, but force of habit was stronger than logic.

He looked at her for a long moment, and she could smell sour wine on him, like in the old days.  It made her sad, but she supposed she couldn’t really blame him.  Then he was pulling her into his lap, and she melted into the solid warmth of him, beginning to cry anew.  He was holding her gently, but she wrapped her arms around him as tightly as she could, wanting as much as she could get.  They stayed like that for a minute or two, until she realized that she was, in fact, very hot, and pulled back from him a little bit.

“It is a little warm in here, I suppose,” Sansa said.  “I told the girls that I had cramps from my moon’s blood, and all they could think of to help was to make me ‘cozy’, as they put it.  I don’t really have cramps or my moon’s blood, but I don’t think being ‘cozy’ would be of much help, even if I did.  Still, it was a kind notion.”

Sandor laughed, and she could feel it rumbling through his body from where she sat on his lap.  She wanted to snuggle closer to him, to feel that vibration traveling through her own body, but she felt all sticky from the heat, now that she had noticed it.

“Shall I open the window, my lady?”  His words were very proper, she noted, but his tone was tender.

“No,” she said.

“Well, then-,” he started to speak, when she crawled off of his lap, back into the middle of the bed, and pulled her shift off.  He turned to stare at her, and she sat there in her smallclothes, feeling rather ridiculous, although much cooler.  She could feel a drop of sweat roll down her back, leaving a cool line behind.

“Little bird,” he said. “I thought-,”

“What did you think? That I wouldn’t want you any more?”

“No, I-,”

“Mayhaps you thought I was with other men? Or women?” Sansa blushed at this last, but she had had the Tarly girls in bed with her, after all.  _Who could know what perverted thoughts men had?_

“Would you-,”

“You wouldn’t even talk to me, or look at me, or come to dinner!  It didn’t have to be like that, you...you...”  Sansa knew plenty of curse words, how could she not, with the company she kept?  But the courtesy ingrained in her made it difficult for her mouth to form the words, much as her mind wanted to.

“Sansa!” His voice was loud and rough, and she closed her mouth with an audible click.  “Can I get a bloody word in?”

She nodded, not wanting to interrupt him again.

“I’m sorry, little bird.  I won’t try to explain, but I am sorry,” Sandor said, finally able to finish a sentence.  

Sansa thought it rather a poor apology, so she tried a new approach.

“Jaime said-,” Sansa began.

“Bugger Jaime Lannister,” Sandor growled.

“He said you loved me too much, and you were sick from it, because you couldn’t be honest about it, and that that kind of love does horrible things to people,” she said all in one big rush, before he could interrupt her again.  

She could feel her heart beat faster in her chest, and she realized she was desperate to hear what his reply to that would be.  She held her breath, waiting for him to speak.  For a minute, he didn’t say a word, just looked at her with unreadable eyes.

“Did he now?” Sandor said, rising from the bed.  He began to pull his tunic off, still speaking, “I suppose he would know about that sort of thing.”   Next went the plain shirt under the tunic, and his voice was muffled as he said, “And I suppose that’s the truth, much as I hate to admit the man’s right.  Love you too damn much for my own good.”

He was standing bare to his waist, with only his breeches left on, and Sansa was drinking in the sight of him.  The light of the fire was shining on the unburnt side of his face, throwing the burnt half into shadows.  His chest and arms were shining from the heat of the room, and she could see some truly horrific bruises scattered across them.  She assumed he had been training with Jaime for the past week, and inwardly shuddered to think how violent those matches had most likely been.

She made a little gesture downwards, accompanied by a tiny sound, and he shook his head, stripping his breeches off and tossing them aside.

“Happy now, you wanton thing?” Sandor said, as he climbed into the bed, tossing some of the blankets off as he did so.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes...” she chanted, twining her arms around his neck, forgetting about the heat.

He stretched out under the remaining bedcoverings, pulling her close to him for a kiss.  Suddenly, he reared back with a curse.

“Sweet Mother of...!” He ripped the sheet up, revealing the hot stone the Tarly girls had tucked at the end of the bed.  Sansa tried to hold back her laughter, but when he turned to her with an indignant look, it spilled out despite her efforts.  

“They are White Walkers, aren’t they?  Seven hells, if they’d made you any more ‘cozy’, you’d have been sleeping with the Queen’s bloody dragons!”  Sandor said, but he was laughing with her, as he shoved the stone off the end of the bed with the nudge of a foot.

“Sandor, please...” Sansa wrapped her body around him, wanting to make up for the time they had lost.  The heat had grown more tolerable, with the hot stone gone.

He stilled her hands, and pulled her up so he could look her in the eyes.  She could still see some of the laughter in his eyes, but his face was serious.

“Sansa, my little bird, are you sure we should-?”

“You can’t stop now!  You’re already in bed, and you haven’t got any clothes on.  That wouldn’t be very nice, to not continue now!”  Sansa was annoyed at his hesitation; she had been craving him for three weeks, and now he didn’t want her?

“I’m not nice, you know that,” Sandor was still serious, but he was gently twisting his fingers in her hair, massaging her scalp.

“You’re nice to me.  Mostly.  Well, you haven’t been lately, but I’ve forgiven you,” Sansa said, leaning back into his touch, luxuriating in it.  “But it would be most unkind of you to come to my bed, unclothed as you are, and not, well...”

“Not what, my lady?” Sandor’s voice had a spark of amusement in it now.

“You know what,” Sansa said primly.

“Yes, I know what.  But so do you.  Now, tell me what you would have of me, my lady,” Sandor said.

“Stop calling me that!” Sansa was becoming irritated.

“What shall I call you? Lady Sansa? Lady Stark?”  Now he was just teasing her.

“Oh, you’re impossible,” she said with a huff.  “Make love to me, please.  That’s what.  And don’t call me your lady again.”

No sooner had she finished speaking, than he was on her, stripping her smallclothes off.  He had one hand between her legs, one holding the back of her head gently as he kissed her.  She was wet for him already, had been anticipating this for what seemed like hours.  He let out a muffled groan against the fevered skin of her shoulder as he felt how much she wanted him.  She was gasping against his good ear, not speaking, not able to do much more than breath.  He moved between her legs, kneeling as if in prayer, worshiping at the altar of her.

“My little bird,” he whispered as he pressed a kiss at her jawline.

“Sansa,” he murmured her name into the hollow at the base of her throat.

“Mine,” he said as he thrust himself into her, claiming her with his words and his body.

When they had finished, sweaty and sated, Sansa was lightheaded from the combination of heat and climax.  She rolled to the side of the bed where a little table stood, and poured two glasses of iced wine.  As they sat up against the headboard, sipping wine, Sansa realized she had yet to thank Sandor for her little carved dog.

“Sandor, I forgot to thank you!” Sansa said.

“No need to thank me, little bird,” he replied.  “It was my pleasure-“

“No,” she said, slightly embarrassed, although she couldn’t say why.  “I meant, I forgot to thank you for my little carved dog.  Thank you!  I carry him with me every day, you know.”

“It’s supposed to be a wolf, to remind you who you are,” Sandor’s eyes were down as he spoke, as if he were embarrassed by the thought he had put into his little gift.

“No,” Sansa said with finality.  “He’s a dog.  He reminds me that I can choose who I am, and what I want.”  

As she spoke, she pulled him down so they were laying facing each other, and brushed her hands over his eyes, gently forcing them closed.  It was something her mother used to do her, gently reminding her to sleep, when she was wound tight at bedtime.  Sandor didn’t open his eyes when she took her hands away, and she realized how exhausted he must be.  She closed her eyes then too, and they both slept the sleep of battle-weary soldiers, catching whatever rest they could get.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut, and Sandor tells a secret

That first week with Sandor was an exquisite torture.  Sansa was pleased to have him near, but he was distant and cool to her in public.  She supposed it was all for the best, but it still felt terrible when he would not meet her eyes or give her his arm as they walked through the keep, always staying two steps behind.  However, when they would find themselves in an abandoned hallway or empty stable, he was not above brushing a hand against her breast or pinching her bottom.  She often went about in an almost constant state of arousal, just from having him close, but nowhere near close enough.

One time, when Sansa had wanted to search for a kitten she had seen going down some dark steps, he had picked her up bodily and pressed her back against the dank walls at the bottom of the stairs.  She had wrapped her legs around him, sucking on his earlobe as he had ground his rock hard erection into her, strong hands rhythmically massaging her arse cheeks as he pulled her tight against him.  Sansa had been sure that he would push her smallclothes aside and take her there, against the wall; to her immense disappointment, he had controlled himself well enough to stop after a few agonizingly delicious moments.

Sandor also happened to be a very clever observer, so much so that he could often ascertain things that Sansa herself had missed.  He had long had an abhorrence for lies, and had a keen eye for people who were practiced at deception.  However, unlike Jaime, he found no pleasure in discussing the intrigues of the court with her.  He would give her counsel if she asked for it, and often when she didn’t, but he didn’t find it particularly interesting, especially not the minor intrigues of the Tarly girls.

The Tarly girls were a source of constant irritation to Sandor, although they were so frightened by him that they were quite subdued in his presence.  With Jaime, they had been teasing and silly, but Sandor was too intimidating to tease.  He found them to be obnoxious, and resented their presence in Sansa’s life, especially in her bed.  On nights when the Tarly’s would come for dinner, he would never stay to eat, and didn’t come back to the rooms until he could be sure they were either asleep or gone for the night.  When Sansa went to the Tarly family’s rooms for dinner, the fifth night of that first week back, he wouldn’t come with her, but he was waiting for her when she returned to her chambers.

“Well,” Sandor said, a strange tone in his voice.  “Did Lord Tarly dine with you tonight?”

“Yes,” replied Sansa.  “He always does, he is a man devoted to his family.  Although I know for a fact he wishes to marry the girls off as quickly as possible.”

“As would I,” Sandor said.  “They’re the stupidest girls I’ve ever known.  But I somehow doubt Tarly is the family man you name him.”

“You have not known very many girls, love.  But, what are you playing at?  Do you know some secret of Lord Tarly’s?”

His face twisted into a grimace.  “Do you mean to bed him?  His men-at-arms all say he is infatuated with you, that he burns for you.”

Sansa was shocked.  She had never caught a glimpse of anything approaching burning passion from Randyll Tarly, had never thought he was that sort of man.  _Well, you have caught him staring at you from time to time,_ Sansa thought.  _But no more than any other man, and much less than some._   It was a very odd feeling, to have Sandor sitting there staring at her, as she realized that another man wanted her.

“He’s old enough to be my father!” she replied.  “I don’t...I have not thought of “bedding” anyone, as you call it.  I had merely planned to flirt, with maybe a kiss or two, to get what knowledge I needed.”

“Little bird,” Sandor’s voice was so sad.  “You and I both know you’ll not gain the knowledge the queen desires with flirting and kisses alone.”

“What would you have me do, Sandor?  Fuck every man who wants me?  Is that what you want to hear, what you want me to say?” Sansa wasn’t even that angry, was more sad than anything, but the words tumbling out of her mouth had a harsh ring.

“Sansa,” he said, a warning in his voice.  “I want you to be very careful, is all.  You will do what you must do, but you play a perilous game with dangerous men.  Lord Tarly is bad enough, he’s a hard man; his lord, Mace Tyrell, is even more dangerous.  There are others at court, with secrets you must draw out, just as dangerous.”

Sansa drew herself up, her features a frozen mask.  “You forget yourself,” she said.  “I, too, can be dangerous.  Have you forgotten Petyr Baelish?”

“No!” Sandor replied heatedly.  He grabbed her by the chin, and forced her face up to his.  “Have you forgotten how I held his head back for you? Do you think if you bring some high lord here, to your bed, he’ll be content to let me or Jaime Lannister sit by in the next room?  I won’t be able to help you, you’ll send me away...”  His voice was anguished now, and she saw the problem.

“I will be safe, Sandor,” Sansa’s voice was softer now.  “No man, no matter how high, could ever hurt me and get away with it.  The queen would feed him to her dragons.”

“Little bird...”

“And futhermore, I still have no intention of bedding anyone.  I don’t care how Lord Tarly burns, he’ll not have me.  The not-having will make him even more my creature than if I were to give myself to him.  And in the end, when I cry and threaten to tell his wife about what little groping I’ll allow him, he’ll be mine completely.”

Sandor was looking at her with a mixture of awe, amusement and disgust.  “My gods, that bastard Littlefinger surely did teach you everything he knew,” he said.

“Littlefinger? Please,” Sansa was dismissive.  “The blackmail, yes, that would be his lesson.  But the part about not having me?  Every woman knows that.”

“Women,” Sandor was shaking his head, leaning back in his chair.  “Gods, I hope we don’t have daughters.”

Sansa’s heart lightened, to hear him talking of their future together.  She went to her knees in front of where he was sitting, kneeling in between his sprawled legs.  She rested her hands on his powerful thighs, and felt his muscles tighten at the unexpected contact.  He was only wearing tight cotton breeches, having taken off his thicker riding leathers, so she was able to gently run her nails along his legs and draw a shiver from him.

“What are you...?” Sandor’s voice was thick with desire, but he gently tried to force her to her feet.  “You know that is not a lady’s place...I’ve told you a million times...a dog does not deserve that pleasure.”

“As many times as I have told you: you are a man, not a dog,” Sansa was deftly tugging the laces of his breeches out, ignoring his protests.  “And you are my man, are you not?”

“You know I am.”

“Then I shall do with you as I please,” she said this last with a sigh, as she was finally able to free his cock from the confines of the tight breeches.

He was hard as stone, and when Sansa sighed, his cock twitched in the hot air of her breath.  She ran her fingers along him lightly, and Sandor shuddered more violently than before.  Almost involuntarily, he moved his body further down in the chair, to allow her better access to his cock.  He would almost never let her take him in her mouth, so when she was able to convince him, she liked to make it last.

She started off very slowly, not even using her mouth, just using her hands to caress and stroke him.  Sansa smiled up at him, although his head was thrown back and his eyes were closed tightly.  Sansa loved when he gave over control to her, and let her please him in this way.  It happened rarely enough that she still felt quite wicked about it, even though they had been lovers for long enough that it shouldn’t matter.  She flicked her tongue against the head of his cock, a quick hard motion, and tasted the saltiness of his skin.  His cock jumped in reply, looking for all the world like it was begging for more, and a harsh grunt came from his lips.

Just as she was moving to take him into her mouth, peals of merry laughter rang out from somewhere down the hallway.  Sansa froze, and Sandor’s eyes snapped open, staring at the door.  The laughter passed by, fading away after a moment, and Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.  But before she could continue, Sandor hoisted her off her knees and propelled her through the entryway into the bed chambers, one hot hand at her back.

“Sit,” she said.  “The chair by the fire.”  She was pulling his clothes off of him as she talked, pausing every now and then to grip his cock and stroke him.

“No,” he said, forcing the word from his lips as she bent her head to lick at him again.  “I want you now...”, he said as he tried to pull her onto the bed.

“You can have what it pleases me to give you,” she replied saucily, kneeling in front of him.  “Now, would you prefer to sit, or to stand?”

Sandor gaped at her; Sansa had never been this bold in their lovemaking before.  She supposed it came of his constant teasing over the course of the week; she was craving his touch, but she also wanted to please him like she never had before, wanted to claim his body for her own.

“Little bird,” Sandor’s voice caught in his throat, and the need in it made Sansa’s stomach clench with desire.  “Please, I...don’t want...”

Sansa ignored him, and pressed him back with her body until he was leaning against the side of the bed, standing on shaky knees.  She leaned her body against his legs, and began to kiss her way towards his cock.  She wanted very badly to make him come with her mouth, but she had never done so before, and was a little intimidated by the sheer size of him.  _Gods, he was truly blessed by nature,_ Sansa thought somewhat uneasily.  She had grown accustomed to the size of it when it was not near her mouth, but now she began to worry that it would be too much for her to take.

Putting the thought from her mind, she began to lick him slowly, from root to tip.  His breathing was loud and heavy, and he was making the most interesting sounds Sansa had ever heard him make; she wondered what sounds he might make if she took him fully in her mouth.  Sandor had his hands bracing himself against the bed, but when Sansa looked up at him, bottom lip caught up in her teeth and cheeks flushed, he sighed and took her head in his hands, guiding her back towards her task.

She could feel his body tense up, a powerful coil, when she slid the tip of his cock between her lips.  Sansa paused for a second, laving her tongue around the head, and she could feel him ripping pins from her hair, so that he could take it in his hands as he liked to do.  When he had buried his hands in her hair, and she could feel the heat of them on her scalp, she let herself take the rest of his manhood into her mouth, as deep as she could manage.  The groan he gave, which was quickly followed by a whimper, was so satisfying to her that she felt a rush of wet heat at her core.  She made a small, strangled-sounding noise against his manhood, and his hands were suddenly pushing her head down, as he moved forward infinitesimally.

The small movements were enough to set the smoldering desire that she felt aflame.  She let him guide her with his hands, setting a slow and steady pace as he moved into her with his hips.  She had thought his manhood too large at first; as she became used to the size of him, she found that she could use her tongue and suction from her lips to take more of him than she would have thought possible.  Evidently, Sandor had not thought it possible either, from the way he was reacting.

“Sansa, gods...” Sandor was moaning, and thrusting himself into her eager mouth at a quicker pace now.  “Please don’t...please...”

If Sansa could have smiled, she would have.  _He’s not saying “don’t do it” any longer, now he means “don’t stop...” ,_ and that thought made her desire grow to an almost intolerable level.  She was aching between her legs, dripping wet and needing to be touched.  She took one of her hands off Sandor’s hips, and brought it down to touch herself.  When she found that small pearl of flesh, that sensitive quivering spot, she fairly cried out against his cock in her mouth and began to suck and lick at a frenzied rate.

She was growing closer to her peak, when suddenly he pulled her head back forcibly by the hair, yanking her to her feet.  She mewled at the loss of sensation, both in her mouth and at her core.

“Enough,” he growled.  “Your mouth is too sweet, don’t make me dirty it any longer.”

But rather than toss her on the bed, he picked her up, as he had that day in the stairwell.  Her back was against the wall, literally and figuratively, and she did the only thing she could: wrapped her legs around him, bucking her hips wildly to try and find some release.  Sandor held her hard against the wall, slowing her pace by gripping her buttocks firmly and moving them himself.  She rebelled against his hold, squirming and crying out, trying to go fast enough, hard enough.  But he would not let her go fast, he was moving them both at a firm and even pace, building the pleasure steadily rather than haphazardly.

Finally, Sansa felt she could take it no longer, and bit down hard upon the wedge of muscle above his shoulder, hard enough that it beaded up with blood.  The sudden pain was enough to send him over the edge, and they both came together with one hard thrust, his blood on her lips.  For a second, neither of them moved, and Sansa was unsure if she was even able to, she felt as if a spring had been pulled taut between them.  Then, she felt the tension leave his body, and he carried her back over to the bed, settling her down gently in the middle.

“Sometimes I love my pretty little bird so much, I forget she can be a fierce wolf as well.  I’ll not soon forget, now that you’ve marked me with your bite,” Sandor flopped back on the bed, his burnt arm thrown over his face.

“That’s what you get for taking my ‘sweet mouth’ away from where I chose to put it,” Sansa was still feeling bold.  She leaned over, and licked the blood off of his shoulder, staining her lips a darker shade of red.  _Mine, all mine,_ she thought, again tasting the saltiness of his body.

Sandor raised his arm slightly, peering out at her with one eye.  “Sansa, I said ‘don’t’, and I meant it.  Whores do that.  You’re a lady, are you not?”

“You don’t think ladies do that?  How many other ladies have you been with, hmm?”

Now the arm had come completely off his face, and he was staring at her as if she had slapped his face.  It seemed to her he had a guilty look on his face, but she had only meant the question rhetorically.  _I had not thought he had ever slept with anyone but whores,_ Sansa thought, _I never saw a woman even speak to him besides Cersei...no, it couldn’t be..._

Sandor replied, “What has gotten into you, little wolfling?  I have had only one lady, and she’s here next to me, although she seems more like a wolf pup at the moment.”  He rubbed a rough thumb over her lips, wiping blood away.

“Truthfully? Promise me?”  Jealousy was not an emotion Sansa had ever felt regarding Sandor; he had always been hers so completely, even before she had known it consciously, or so she had thought.  The new feeling was a twisting cramp in her gut, and she imagined a little dragon there, clawing inside of her.

“Sansa...” Sandor was hesitant, and Sansa jumped on it.

“You cannot promise?  Who, and when?”  Her voice cracked out like a whip, and she saw him flinch.

“Before I ever laid eyes on you, for certain.  Before you were born, even.  I was young, too young.  It wasn’t something I wanted, little bird, it was...not right,” Sandor couldn’t look at her as he spoke.

“Who?”

“Please, must I? Can you not trust me?”

“I said, ‘Who?’,” Sansa was burning up inside, but her words came out sharp and cold as icicles.

Sandor scrubbed his face with his hands, clearly disturbed, and a small part of her felt horrible for forcing the confession from him, when he so obviously was hurt by it.  But the dragon in her inside of her was roaring fire, and she wanted desperately to know, even though she knew it would hurt them both.

“Cersei Lannister,” he said in a dead-sounding voice.

Sansa gasped audibly, but kept her thoughts to herself.  _Cersei, that witch!  If she wasn’t dead, I’d kill her..._

Sandor continued bitterly,  “She was older than me, but I was already one of the best of her father’s men, though only a squire.  He assigned me to her, obviously thinking such an ugly boy as myself would never tempt her.  Even then he knew what she was.  She and Jaime had been separated, you know.  She _practiced_ on me.  Her words, not mine.  I was a boy, you know how boys are...I could no more resist her than I could resist food or drink.”

Sansa’s mouth was hanging open like a loose shutter; she couldn’t help it, his words were shocking to her.  _But I don’t really know how boys are...what boys have I known?  Joffrey? Sweetrobin? My poor dead or wild brothers?  I know no boys, especially not one as the Hound would have been._   She had reverted to thinking of him as the Hound, as he had been when he had belonged to Cersei Lannister.  She could not think of him as her Sandor, not with that woman.

Sandor’s voice was muffled by his hands as he went on.  “We never fucked, although that was all we _didn’t_ do.  I was scared to do that, I didn’t want her father to kill me.  I didn’t know yet what I was, that nobody could stand before me, besides Gregor.  It wasn’t for long; soon after I was assigned to her, Robert’s rebellion came into full swing, and I was sent away to fight.  I had to guard her again after, but then she was a Queen, with her sweet brother by her side in her husband’s Kingsguard.  She still owned me though, and when Joffrey was born...well, she’d have no other man by his side but her obedient Hound.”

“I remember, once,” Sansa said, “Joffrey told me, on the Kings Road on the way down from Winterfell, that you were more his mother’s dog than his.  But I never imagined...”

“Who would?”  Sandor’s voice was harsh.  “It wasn’t as if we were in love.  She bloody _used_ me, as you would a horse or, aye, a dog.  ‘Whores do that’, I told you.  Well, Cersei was the Queen of the Whores, little bird.  She _used_ me to practice her skills for her brother, for all that she hated my ugly face and my low birth.  I was nothing but a hard cock to her.  It made me sick, and mad with lust; I hated her for it, but I couldn’t get away from her.  It was a blessed relief when she had _Ser_ Jaime back, I’ll tell you that.”  His mouth twisted upon the word 'Ser', an ugly sneer.

“Is that why you hate Jaime so much?” Sansa asked in a small voice.  The dragon in her gut had flown away; she felt nothing now but sadness, and love for the man lying on the bed beside her.

“No,” Sandor took his hands away from his face, and twined them in hers, looking her in the eye.  “It’s why I tolerate the man as much as I do, for all he’s a pompous prick.  Imagine how much worse it must have been for him.  Remember how he was, after he heard she was gone?  I believe the bitch controlled his entire life, up until that moment; even when he hated her, he still loved her.”

Sansa nodded, remembering.

“Does he know?”  Sansa was almost scared to ask.

“Seven hells, no!  At least, he’s never given me any cause to believe he does.  I hardly think Cersei would have told him, do you?  And I think he would have brought it up many times by now, not in the least  the other night.”

“I’m sorry I made you tell...” Sansa truly felt remorseful, but she was glad to have found out.  She wanted to know everything about Sandor, especially the bad parts.

He pulled her closer to him on the bed, and brushed a kiss on her forehead.  His lips slid down to her temple, pressing a kiss there as he nosed at her hair, a familiar and comforting routine.

“S’alright, my love.  You deserve the truth.  Always,” Sandor said.  “I’m sorry as well, for how I treated you.  I forget myself sometimes, I should not be so rough with you...”

Sansa laughed against his neck.  “Says the man who bears a bloody wolf bite!”

Sandor laughed then, too, and rolled on top of her, pinning her down between his legs and arms.  She struggled against him playfully, wanting nothing more than to make him laugh and smile, and erase the pain lingering in his eyes.  Sansa stretched her neck up, straining for a kiss, while he hovered just out of her reach.  She pursed her lips, still stained a faint red from his blood, in an exaggerated kiss, making little pleading noises.  Finally, he lowered his head, and kissed her down into the bed, his body lowering over hers with a comforting weight.  They spoke no more that night, not of Randyll Tarly or Cersei Lannister, the future and the past both forgotten for the precious gift of the present.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa sets her sights on Randyll Tarly...poor sucker.

After Sandor had raised the point, Sansa found she was unable to shake the idea that Lord Tarly was, in fact, burning with passion for her.  To be sure, he never so much as touched her inappropriately, and was always unfailingly polite in his speech to her.  However, she began to notice how he would seek her out at court, and was always in the stables when she and his daughters were readying to go for a ride.  He often assisted her with getting Lady ready, and would always insist on helping her into the saddle, which annoyed both Sandor and Jaime to no end.

One such time, as an experiment, Sansa let her hand drift across his shoulder unnecessarily as he helped her settle into the saddle.  He did not acknowledge it, but she noticed that the muscles under her hand tensed considerably and that he let his hand linger at her waist a split-second more than was necessary.  For someone as controlled and rigid as Randyll Tarly, this was a telling sign.  She wondered if any secrets that Lord Tarly might be privy to were worth the hassle of encouraging his attention more openly.  She decided that although he would probably not have any secrets of his own, he might be a contact worth cultivating simply for his close relationship with his lord, Mace Tyrell.

Having made up her mind, Sansa did not waste any time dithering about.  When she returned from her ride, she accepted an invitation from the Tarly sisters to dine with them.  Normally, her guard would follow her, unless it was Sandor.  This evening, it was Brienne, but Sansa dismissed her.  Brienne argued half-heartedly, more so that she could tell Sandor and Jaime she had, rather than out of any pressing want to attend dinner with the Tarlys.  There was no love lost between Randyll Tarly and Brienne of Tarth, and Sansa had a vague notion that the two had clashed in the past.

The dinner was a pleasant one, filled with light-hearted conversation and cheerful laughter.  Sansa was bright and clever, shining among the more dull Tarly girls.  After they had eaten, and talked for a while, Sansa decided it was time to make her play.

“Oh my goodness, it is quite late...” Sansa stretched her arms over her head as she spoke, and swayed a little on her feet.

“Shall I send for one of your men?” Lady Tarly asked politely.

The eldest Tarly girl giggled, “But, Mama, you’ve forgotten Sansa has a woman too!  Lady Brienne is her guard this week.”

Lord Tarly’s face darkened, and he spoke before his wife could reply.  “There’s no need to fetch that woman.  Lady Stark, I’ll escort you back to your rooms myself.  I must needs see Tyrell for a moment, in any case, and his rooms are near to yours.”

Sansa merely thanked him politely, but inside she was thinking quickly.  She gathered her few things, a shawl and her riding gloves, and let Lady Tarly drape the shawl about her shoulders.  Sansa felt a slight pang of guilt over the fact that she would soon be seducing that kind woman’s husband, but she assuaged it by telling herself that it was not real, and that it would not go far.  She took the arm Randyll Tarly offered her, tucking her small hand tightly into the crook of his elbow and holding herself quite close to him, although not improperly so...not yet.  

As they left the Tarly rooms, and made their way down a dark hall, Sansa pulled herself closer to Lord Tarly and clutched his arm tighter than was necessary.  She let a slight hitch come into her breathing, and glanced over at Tarly from under lowered lashes.  He hadn’t seemed to have been paying much attention to her, but when he felt her basically tuck herself into his side, he looked down at her and saw the look she was giving him.

“Are you frightened, Lady Stark?  I assure you, there is nothing to fear here, dark though it may be,” he said in a strident tone.

“I know, my lord, it is silly of me.  But after my experiences here, in this keep, I find myself often flinching even from familiar sights, especially in the dark,” Sansa let her voice tremble and her eyes drop to the floor.

Tarly patted her hand in what she assumed was supposed to be a comforting gesture, although it was clear he was not one for giving comfort.  However, since he had made an attempt, she looked back up and him and offered a weak smile.  She noticed that his eyes clouded over, for just a second, with something that looked suspiciously like lust to her.  _So he prefers a weak, helpless woman.  Not surprising, or hard,_ Sansa realized.

“My lady Stark, you have nothing to fear any longer.  You have most doughty guards, inappropriate though they may be,” he said with a frown.  “And as long as I am at court, I would offer myself as a protector as well.  I am sworn to Tyrell, but I would ever be a defender of such a beautiful woman as yourself.”

Sansa was shocked that he would go so far, so quickly, especially since he was not typically a man to express any feelings.  She supposed he must be even more interested in her than she had even guessed.

“Thank you, Lord Tarly,” Sansa said, with that same weak smile and lidded gaze.  “But, please, call me Lady Sansa or just Sansa, won’t you?”  She felt and heard his slight intake of breath at the familiarity she offered him.  “What did you mean by ‘as long as I am at court’, my lord?  You aren’t going away are you?”

“Not anytime soon, no, my lady.  S-Sansa,” he stumbled over her given name, as he once had over her last name.  “But I am a loyal bannerman of House Tyrell, and if he needs me elsewhere, I will go at his command.”

 _Interesting,_ Sansa thought.  _He is a loyal bannerman of Tyrell, and makes no mention of the Queen.  Most men are eager to profess their loyalty to a queen who commands dragons._

“Of course, my lord,” Sansa murmured.  “I hope it will not be for a long time, though.  I find your presence here a great comfort.”  She tightened her grip on his elbow, and brushed her cheek against his upper arm, leaning into him.

“I am glad of it, Lady Sansa,” Tarly’s voice was a bit breathless now, as though he had climbed a steep staircase.  “I would ever and always be a comfort to you, in whatever way you need.”

It was obvious to Sansa now that while unaccustomed to this game, Lord Tarly was playing very earnestly.  The realization made her cheeks blush, as she knew that he was a stern man who was not prone to dalliances or frivolities.  The fact that she could have such an effect on a man such as Randyll Tarly was incredible to her; she didn’t know why it should surprise her, she had been attracting the attention of hard men since she was a young girl.  For some reason, however, the sight of Lord Tarly gazing at her with lust in his eyes was heady and empowering.

They made it uneventfully to her chambers, not speaking the entire rest of the walk there.  But before Sansa could open the door, Lord Tarly placed one hot hand on her wrist.

“My lady, I would have you know...”, his voice trailed off.

“What is it, my lord?” Sansa’s voice was innocent, and her eyes wide.

“You may trust in me with anything.  Please do not hesitate to come to me with any problem or desire you may have, I am at your service,” Tarly’s voice was the softest she had ever heard it, but the look in his eyes was anything but. 

If the hard lust in his gaze was any indication, his cock was most likely straining at his laces.  Sansa smiled inwardly, and decided to take it one more step, as she sensed he would be putty in her hands.

“Thank you, Lord Tarly.  I would beg a favor of you, I hope you won’t think me too bold,” Sansa said.

“Anything, my dear Lady Sansa,” he replied, almost breathlessly.

Sansa thought quickly, then said,  “I am but a young girl, and unschooled in the ways of leading, but I am entrusted with the duties of my brother, the Warden of the North, here at court.  I would very much like to learn from you, and from Lord Tyrell as well.  May I sometimes sit with you, and learn from you how to lead?”

“I will talk to Mace Tyrell about it, lady, and we shall see what he says.  But I am certain he will agree, once I explain your dilemma to him.  I could teach you more of warfare, but I pray you would never need that knowledge.  Let me speak with my lord, and we will speak of it again on the morrow,” he said.

“Thank you, my Lord Tarly!  Thank you so much, I have no friends here at court to guide me; I fear I do not represent my brother, and the North, as I should,” Sansa lied through her teeth.  She was doing much better than Rickon ever would, and she knew she was the equal of stupid, fat Mace Tyrell.

“On the morrow, my lady,” Lord Tarly said with a bow, and he raised her hand to his lips for a brief moment before turning and striding away, looking for all the world the very picture of his sigil.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's sworn shields are concerned about Tarly, and Sandor's making plans...

When Sansa went in her rooms, she jolted to notice that all three of her loyal guards were sitting around the table.  She noted that Jaime and Sandor had wine glasses in front of them, while Brienne had a glass of water.  The dark looks on all three of their faces did not bode well, but she couldn’t understand why they were all here.

“What are you all doing here?” Sansa asked.  “Brienne is on duty for three more days still, unless I am mistaken.”

The two men looked at Brienne, obviously wanting her to explain.  She bowed her head, and Sansa was surprised to see a guilty look cross her face.

“Forgive me, my lady, it’s my fault,” Brienne said.  “I may have overreacted to the flirtation between you and Lord Tarly.  When I attempted to explain it-”

Jaime butted in.  “The way she made it sound, he was going to bring you back here and ravish you.  Sandor, and Brienne and I, as well, were concerned.”

Sansa could tell that obviously Sandor had been hard to control, and the other two had only been able to appease him by waiting for her in her chambers.

“Our flirtation?! Brienne, your powers of observation are rapidly improving!  It was the slightest of touches, truly!”

Sansa was almost laughing now, it was so ludicrous.  The only thing that kept her from it was the looks on their faces.  She put aside the thought that Lord Tarly had, in fact, increased his attentions on the walk back to her room.  It was Sandor that spoke next, and she had the uneasy feeling that they had planned this out, this teaming up on her.

“Little bird, how were we to know?  Tarly is a hard man.  Brienne told us some of the things he has said to her, and that she has seen him do.”

“Like what?” Sansa asked, perplexed.

Brienne replied, “He once said I needed a good raping, to teach me a woman’s place.  I have seen him have whores scoured with lye, and chop men’s hands off where others would have given them the choice of the Wall.”

Sansa gaped at the large woman, unable to formulate a reply.  She knew many men would commit rape in the aftermath of a battle, but this was something different.  She suddenly felt weary, and since the fourth chair had never been replaced, she had nowhere to sit.  The three of them were overwhelming her, and also taking up all the available seating -- it was incredibly frustrating.

“You see, girl?  He is a dangerous man.  We feared for your safety,” Sandor said, his voice rough as usual, but full of emotion.

“I’m sorry to have caused you all to worry.  But I am doing this thing the best way I know how...do you understand?  I am this close,” Sansa held up her thumb and forefinger, pinched almost together, “to gaining entrance to the innermost circle of Mace Tyrell.  If anyone is plotting, he is, for certain.”

Sansa swayed on her feet now, exhausted after a long day of riding and intrigue, topped off by all this talk of dangerous men.  Brienne was the closest to her, but before the woman could rise, Sandor came around the table and put a steadying arm around her, kissing the top of her head.  She wrapped her arms around him, thankful for his solid presence, and closed her eyes.  When he spoke, it was not to her, but to his fellow sworn shields.

“We must do better.  Brienne, you have cause to hate the man, I’ll not deny it, but you must go with her from now on.  Myself as well, I’ve been remiss-“

Sansa interrupted, “No.  I could never have accomplished what I did tonight if Brienne had been with me.  You three must learn to trust me a bit.  I love you, all three of you, but some things I can only accomplish alone.  Tarly would never have said the things he said, or do as he did, if one of you had been with me tonight.”

She felt Sandor’s hand tighten at her waist, and knew he was imagining worse than had actually happened.  Her eyes flew open as she realized how she had sounded, and she saw Brienne grimacing and Jamie smirking.  She risked a glance up at Sandor, still holding her tightly, and his mouth was twisted unpleasantly.

“Nothing untoward happened, I swear!” she said.  “I flirted with him, most innocently, and he responded as any man would.  But he did nothing to dishonor me, he was the picture of politeness.”

Jaime laughed aloud at that, and said, “Well, Hound, he’s topped you and I then!  I suppose we shall have to practice our manners if we wish to flirt with our lady here.  Lady Sansa, you are truly a most adorable creature.”  The last was said in a semi-breathless gasp, as Brienne had elbowed him soundly in the ribs.

“Mind your tongue, Jaime!” Brienne was stern, but there was a hint of laughter in even her voice.

Sansa giggled at his teasing, and she was surprised to hear Sandor chuckling above her as well.  She realized that, unwittingly, she had allayed his fears.  He knew that while she valued courtesy, a remainder from her past, she now placed a much higher value on the truth, which was his specialty.  He would never fear losing her to a man who responded to flirtation with only polite interest.  She smiled against his middle, snuggling her face into him and squeezing him tighter.

Sandor responded by scooping her up, hefting her as if she weighed no more than a small child.  She put her arms around his neck and touched her forehead to his, not caring about the other two people in the room.  Brienne coughed uncomfortably, and she could hear Jaime snigger as he poured another glass of wine.  She opened her eyes and met Sandor’s, wishing they had more privacy when she saw the look in his grey eyes.  He must have known her thoughts, because he spoke again to Jaime and Brienne.

“This little bird is going to bed.  Leave us,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.  “Brienne, I’ll come down by and by and you can return to finish your week.”

Brienne nodded at them, with a small smile on her face, and took Jaime’s wine glass from him.  He snatched it back from her and drained it, before catching her about the waist, and pulling her towards the door.

“My dear, I hope you’ll not mind if I don’t sweep you off your feet like our friend there.  It is a difficult thing with only one hand, and you’ve got more meat on your bones than the Hound’s little bird,” Jaime said, kissing her on her scarred cheek.  “Still, I have a mind to make you sing like one...”

Brienne blushed fiercely, and punched Jaime in the gut as they were going out the door.  He gave a pained laugh, and planted a kiss on her lips as he pulled the door shut.

\---------------------------------

“I will never get over the strangeness of that pair,” Sandor said, hooking the wine jug with one finger before carrying Sansa into the bed chamber.  “Do you think they wish to marry?  Can you imagine them wedded and settled down?”

“Yes,” Sansa replied.  “I asked Jaime about it- oof!,” she was interrupted by him dropping her on the bed, but continued, “once and he said they had spoken of it, but that Brienne’s father would not accept her inheriting with him as her husband.  The Evenstar did not wish a kingslayer to become Lord of Tarth, evidently.”

“Makes sense, but it is a shame.  That means we may never be rid of them,” Sandor said, handing her a glass of wine.

“I had thought to dismiss them when we wed,” Sansa replied, “but I don’t know now.  They have nothing else, and I fear what the queen might do to Jaime if he is not under my protection.  I am sure it is only her love for me that keeps him safe.”

Sandor laid back on the bed next to where she sat, closing his eyes and stretching his arms and legs.  His joints popped and creaked, and he grunted in relief.  When he spoke, Sansa was shocked at his words.

“I’ve been thinking on it, little bird, as I’d like to wed you before I get much older and can’t enjoy you,” Sandor said, tugging at her hair gently.  “What if we were to name Ser Jaime castellan of whatever keep the queen sees fit to grant us, and the Lady Brienne master-at-arms?  Or the other way around, it really makes no difference to me.”

“You would do that?” Sansa had thought he would never want to see Jaime Lannister again, and damn the consequences of cutting the man loose.  “Why?”

“Aye, I would.  To please you, most of all.  But they’ve been loyal, that’s something a dog knows a little about, and both are gently born, so they’ll know what it takes to run a castle,” Sandor was tender as he spoke to her, and it made Sansa’s heart ache with wanting.

“It will be quite a step down the ladder for both of them, Sandor,” she said, even though she liked the idea quite a bit.

“Lannister’s at the bottom rung already.  As you said, without your protection, the queen would likely have him executed.  I couldn’t care less, but I know it would cause you grief,” Sandor said dryly.  “And Brienne would do anything to be with him, the stupid woman.  Anyway, I’ve already spoken to them both about it, and they’re willing...if you approve, that is.”  

Sansa gaped at him, her mouth hanging open in a very unladylike manner.  Sandor reached over and pushed it shut with one finger under her chin, smiling at her gently.  He kept his finger on her jawline, tracing it up to her ear and back down to her lips.  _I can’t believe he spoke with them before me!  But how sweet of him to think of pleasing me, and- oh, that feels good!_   Sandor was following the path of his finger with his lips, feathering kisses along her jaw, ear and lips.

“You are a sweet man, my love,” Sansa murmured against his kiss.  “Truly, you have a big heart.”

Sandor snorted, and pulled his head away from hers.  “Only for you, ever.  And if you tell anyone...”

She smiled up at him, safe between the pillars of his arms.  “You’ll do what?”

“Oh, bugger it.  Nobody would believe you anyway.”  Sandor kissed her again, harder this time, and moved his body over hers.

They were both still fully clothed, but that was easily remedied, and soon was.  They were both exhausted from the day, and so for the longest time they merely caressed each other lazily.  After a while, they progressed to slowly, languidly making love, setting a rhythm that would last for hours if they let it.  Kissing and touching each other’s faces, they moved together while the candles burnt low and the castle slept.  

Every so often, Sansa would mewl happily, when Sandor would find that sweet spot within her, and he would quicken his pace a little in response.  Soon enough, she could feel her peak building, and wrapped her legs around him, angling for more friction.  He moved as well, but only enough to nibble at her neck and send hot breath through her hair.

“Oh, Sandor...that feels...mmm...very good,” Sansa sighed.  “Please, love...”

He knew what she was asking for, and replied without words.  His tongue on her neck and the increased rate of his body in between her legs was enough to send her over the edge; she came quietly, a small sigh the only sign of her contentment.  She could tell that Sandor was close as well, so she turned her head to his neck, and began to suck at the pulse she saw there.  He groaned into her ear, and she felt him tense up.  Sansa smiled, and gave a little whimper of encouragement as he spent himself.

 _Moon tea again,_ Sansa thought dejectedly, as Sandor nuzzled at her hair and softened inside of her.  Lately she was wishing more and more that she could forgo the bitter liquid, and allow nature to run its course.  She wanted a child, and she thought Sandor wouldn’t object either.  The thought of Sandor holding their child, cradling a tiny head, downy with black fuzz, made her tear up almost instantly.  He felt her tears against his bare skin, and lifted himself up to look at her face.

“What, little bird?  I’m sorry that I have to go, but I can’t stay through the night...your rules, not mine,” he said, not quite understanding the reason for her tears.

“It’s not that, Sandor,” Sansa was all but sobbing now.  “I w-want...I want to have you every night, and I want babies and puppies and a h-h-home,” her voice broke on the ‘home’, a miserable sound.

He turned their bodies together, so they lay on their sides facing each other, and stroked her hair.  Sansa was curled up into a miserable little ball, and Sandor tucked his long legs up around hers, fitting his large body around her smaller one.  For the longest time, he didn’t say a word to her, just petted her softly and wiped away her tears with the corner of a blanket.  Just as she was beginning to feel a twinge of anger that he didn’t respond, he began to speak, haltingly.  She couldn’t tell if he was even talking to her, or just speaking thoughts aloud.

“Never in all my miserable life...” Sandor started, then began again.  “I never expected to have anything.  Not a home, nor a wife or children.  Never wanted Clegane Keep, and never thought there would be a woman mad enough to want me.  Children?  Half my life, maybe more than half, I imagined any children of mine would be like Gregor or me...”

“You’re not the same...!” Sansa started to interrupt, but he put a finger to her lips.

“Close enough.  Huge, angry...only good for one thing: killing; Gregor took what I could have been, and remade me in his image.  Bloody bastard,” Sandor’s words were bitter, but more from habit than anything else.  “But ever since I told you my story, that night after the tourney?  You are so much like my sister...or how she would have been, had she been allowed to grow.”

Sandor brushed a lock of stray hair off her cheek, his eyes far away.  He had told her the story of how his sister died, although he didn’t even know all the details of it.  Just that it had been Gregor, as always.  Gregor and his unspeakable temper, and a long fall from a high window.  Sandor didn’t even know what had enraged his brother that time, had been laid up in his own pain and misery, recovering from his burns.

“A child like you, like her, would bring me nothing but joy.  A sweet, lovely girl like you or a gentle, brave boy like your brothers would be fine by me.  But what if we had another, more like me? More like Gregor?  I’d kill it myself...”

Once that would have shocked Sansa, but she had grown out of being shocked by much of anything.  _A child like Gregor? Or Joffrey? I’d let him kill it...gods save me._   She brushed the thought from her mind with a little difficulty, like a stubborn fly.

“Sandor, listen to me.  You are not Gregor.  Our children will be beautiful, kind, loyal and brave.  Do you understand?” She spoke sternly, as if the timbre of her voice could will her words into reality.

He smiled, a twisted thing, but lovely to her.  “Times like this, I think my whole life since Saltpans has been but a fever dream.  The Lannister’s Hound, lying abed with Sansa Stark, one-time Queen in the North, speaking of beautiful children?  What could that be, but the ravings of a mind gone mad with fever?”

Sansa shoved her knee into his middle, not hard, but enough to draw a grunt from him.  “Don’t say those words,” she reprimanded him, although she was smiling.

“Which?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Hound. And Queen in the North.  I did not ask for the title, and I don’t think you did either.  Mine is too high, and yours too low.  It dishonors you,” Sansa said.

“Wrong on both counts, little bird,” Sandor replied.  “You would make a fine queen, a blind man could see it.”

Sansa opened her mouth, and once again he put a thick finger across her lips.

“And a dog is what I am, your dog now, to be sure, but a dog all the same.  What do you have against dogs, girl?”  He kept speaking before she could answer, not that she had one.  “Dogs are loyal, brave and they never lie...”

“A dog will die for you, but never lie to you,” Sansa said softly, remembering.

Sandor kissed her forehead, then, and said, “That’s right, and don’t you ever forget it.  Now, no more crying.  Kiss me, and then I must go find Brienne.  Hopefully she and that bloody fool have finished, I don’t fancy walking in on that...”

“Oh, hush, let them be happy,” she replied as she pulled his head in close for a kiss.

“They can be happy all they want,” he said.  “I just don’t want to see it, is all.”  

He kissed her deeply, and rose from the bed to dress.  Sansa felt the loss of his heat and weight around her like a blow, and she shivered as she pulled the blankets around her tightly.  She watched him pull his clothes on haphazardly, and smiled at his frown when he poked a finger through the hole in the underarm of his tunic.  Usually she gave all the household’s mending to one of the maids, but a thought came to her that struck her fancy.  _He is my man, I should mend his clothes. That is what a wife should do,_ she thought, remembering how her mother had always insisted on mending her father’s various rips and tears.

“If you send that back with Brienne, I’ll mend it for you,” she offered with a shy smile.

“As long as you promise not to embroider it with hearts or something ridiculous,” he retorted, pulling on his boots.

She stuck her tongue out at him, and teased, “I was thinking more along the lines of flowers, but if you wish to have a boring old rag, fine!”

He laughed, and leaned over the bed to kiss her again.  “Sansa Stark, touching needle to cloth without a single heart or flower?  Now I know I’m trapped in a fever dream!”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spy!Sansa gathering intel...no Sandor, but he'll be back ;D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait in updating! My motivation is back, though, so look for more chapters soon...
> 
> Just FYI, this chapter is unbeta'd. I just wanted to get it up, as I'm sort of sick of looking at it...if you see any glaring errors, please let me know!
> 
> Finally, most importantly, this chapter would still be lingering unwritten without my lovely friends on Twitter, most especially Shezza ;D Thanks, ILU!

The next day, Sansa dressed meticulously, channeling her nerves into making sure she looked as feminine and beautiful as possible. She was careful not to wear Stark colors; if Lord Tarly could deliver on his promise, she did not want to remind Mace Tyrell of the power she held, virtually equal to his own. As she selected her jewelry, Sansa heard a sharp knock on the door and she glanced over at Brienne, who was seated before the fire. Brienne went into the next room and opened the door; Sansa heard the woman give an uncomfortable cough, and realized it must be Lord Tarly who had entered. She smiled smugly to herself, and went into the next room to see what Tarly was willing to do for her.

“Lady Sansa,” Lord Randyll Tarly bowed low over her proffered hand, almost but not quite kissing it. “I spoke with my lord, and he assured me that you would be most welcome at any time. In fact, he proposed that I bring you today, if you are free.”

Sansa felt a tendril of jubilant satisfaction rise within her, but outwardly, she merely smiled. “I have no plans to speak of, my lord. I was only going to do a little needlework. In fact, may I bring it with me? A lady’s hands should never be idle, after all.”

It was the vaguest sort of innuendo, but she felt his hand tighten around hers, rather than release it as would have been proper. Again, Sansa felt a sense of satisfaction twist in her gut, and she realized that Littlefinger had trained her for this exact moment...and she was relishing it. She made her hand go quite limp, and let a small noise escape her mouth, a cross between a whimper and a gasp. Tarly released her hand immediately, but she could see that her play had worked, as Tarly’s gaze was now distinctly heavy on her.

She touched his arm lightly, and turned away to gather her sewing basket, noting the way Brienne was fighting to control the expression of disgust on her face. She raised her eyebrows at the woman, then trained her face back into a calm mask, reminding her to do the same. When Sansa returned with her sewing basket, she was proud to see that Brienne’s face was placid as she stood ramrod-stiff next to the door.

“Shall we, Lady Sansa?” Tarly said, offering his arm with a smile that looked predatory on his sharp face.

She laced her arm through his and let him guide her along the passageways of the Red Keep, holding herself a fingers-breadth closer to him than necessary. When they came to Mace Tyrell’s chambers, Sansa noted almost unconsciously the number of guards, thinking it somewhat high for the circumstances. When they entered, Sansa was pleased to see that the guards were not so heavy here, and that there were few people present. _The less people here, all the better for me,_ she thought. _He must hold Tarly in high regard to allow him to bring me to such a meeting..._ She cleared her head of outside thoughts, and smiled brightly at Lord Tyrell, the lord of Highgarden and the Reach, seated in one of the comfortable chairs arranged in a circle around the luxuriously appointed room.

“Thank you so much for allowing me to intrude, my lord,” Sansa said with a low curtsy. “As my brother’s representative here, I fear I have been lacking the necessary skills to represent the North. I hope, with your help, I can remedy that situation.”

Mace Tyrell smiled at her broadly, his eyes sparkling with what she could clearly see was good humor brought about by the fine Arbor Gold before him. He was obviously a fairly dull-witted man, as Sansa remembered his mother, Olenna Tyrell, telling her years before. But even as she thought that, two younger men came into the room, and Sansa realized she’d have to watch her step.

Garlan Tyrell stepped forward first, taking her hand and kissing it gently, the courtly good manners and kind smile she recalled from the night of her first wedding still evident.

“Lady...Sansa, it’s a pleasure to see you once again,” Garlan Tyrell murmured against her hand. “I pray we may be of some assistance to you, and not bore you to tears instead.”

She noted his hesitation at which name to call her by, and inwardly smirked. The discomfiture he had shown was not by any means unique, and it always gave her a twinge of satisfaction that she was able to confound people without any effort on her part. But her attention was drawn to the other man who had entered, and she felt more than slightly uncomfortable herself.

Loras Tyrell had been badly burned in the battle of Dragonstone, worse even than Sandor. There had been a time when Sansa had fancied herself in love with the Knight of the Flowers, that beautiful boy that he had been; she was acutely aware of the irony that now linked him with her true love, Sandor, forever. As Loras bent over her hand, still slim and lithe, she found herself staring at the burnt flesh of his face and head. Loras’ burns were different from Sandor’s, slick and twisted like a melted candle, dull red in color.

“My lady,” he said as he rose from her hand, “your beauty has grown in leaps and bounds since last I saw you.”

His face was solemn, and she caught a hit of something, almost anger but not quite, as his eyes moved from her to Brienne, standing a few steps behind her. Sansa thanked him politely, drawing his attention back to her, his lovely brown eyes staring out from a face permanently twisted into an unlovely mask. He gestured to a soft-looking chair, and Sansa felt a firm hand on her elbow as Lord Tarly guided her down into the seat.

She felt a brief flash of irritation, _Does he think I cannot seat myself?,_ but she smiled at him prettily and twisted her arm so that, as she sat, his fingers were forced to brush down the length of her forearm and the soft skin of her exposed wrist. Tarly let his hand wrap around her wrist for a moment, his thumb rubbing insistently against the pulse below her own, and Sansa let herself shiver slightly as she settled back into the chair. She looked up at Lord Tarly and smiled again, this time more tremulously, as if pushing down nervousness. He controlled his face well, but not well enough to fool Sansa; the clench of his jaw, the enlarged pupils of his eyes...she had him now.

The rest of the meeting was by turns, tense and mind-numbingly dull. Sansa got the distinct feeling that they were holding back in her presence, testing her out as it were, so she played along as was expected of her. She sat and embroidered, and listened carefully as Mace Tyrell talked at his sons and Randyll Tarly. Every now and again, he would ask her a question, or make a point of including her in the conversation; at those times, Sansa would make the sort of reply expected of her: fairly clever, but innocent and naive to the darker side of Westeros’ ruling class. It was almost painfully easy for her, and she found herself mentally cataloguing Tyrell weaknesses for further examination when she was at her leisure.

Finally, she realized, the meeting was nearing its conclusion. However, she noticed that the talk had grown somewhat strained, as if they were dancing around a subject but couldn’t address it freely. Sansa had her head tilted down, examining her stitches, and had been sitting so for some time...she made a decision, and slid down further in her seat, letting her head droop as if she were sleeping. After a few moments, the men began to speak more freely, and she realized that what she was hearing was incendiary, but only a hint at the long game of House Tyrell.

Garlan spoke first, “Father, she’s as well as can be expected, but bored witless. You know how Margaery is...she’s Highgarden’s most beautiful rose. Like any other rose, she needs sunlight on her cheeks, love and attention.”

For once, Sansa had to fight to hide her reaction. She, along with everyone else in the kingdom, had thought Margaery Tyrell dead, a victim of the war of the Mummer’s Dragon, the false Aegon Targaryen and his Golden Company. The fact that she was alive, and apparently hidden away at Highgarden or elsewhere in the Reach, was disturbing. Even though she had no claim to the throne, she had been married to the previous two kings and was still, supposedly, a maiden untouched. Her worth was astronomical, and her youthful beauty evidently still in full bloom...and yet, she was sitting, hidden away, like some spinster aunt.

As Sansa’s mind spun, trying to understand, Mace Tyrell replied.

“Son, she’s our most valuable chip, and I don’t give a damn if she’s wilting away. If it’s love and affection she craves, you and your brother can give it to her, for now. Walk with her, dance with her, spend every waking moment with her if you must...I care not. Above all, remind her daily of the greatness she will bring to her house...more than any woman could ever hope for.”

Sansa almost snorted at that, but turned the sound into a soft snore. She heard Ser Loras chuckle beside her, and felt a faint embarrassment that he would think her a snorer. She turned her mind back to Margaery Tyrell, and again felt derision at Mace Tyrell’s supposition that a woman could only honor her house through marriage. She supposed with his dull wit, it was the most he could imagine, but when Daenerys Targaryen sat the Iron Throne, it seemed incredible to her that he could still value women so poorly.

It was Loras who spoke next, with a tone so bitter it made Sansa wince, “Not I, father. She cries each time she sees me, and flinches from my touch. It’s been years and still she cannot bear to look at me. I’d prefer to stay here at court; the stares of others hurt far less than the tears of my dearest sister. I’d do anything for her advancement, and that of our house, but don’t make me stay there with her, I beg you.”

Sansa heard Loras’s chair scrape against the floor abruptly, and she realized he had got up and left. She heard Garlan excuse himself and follow after his brother, and she felt a pang of something, jealousy or sadness, she couldn’t tell which. _The Tyrell siblings all still have each other, maimed or no. Margaery should fall at her brother’s feet and weep with joy that he lives and breathes. Stupid girl._

The conversation turned, at this point, to more light matters. Specifically, to the casks of fine Arbor gold that were being brought up to King’s Landing, one as a gift to the Queen, and three for Mace Tyrell’s personal use. As he droned on, Sansa allowed herself to slowly “awaken” and lifted her head, looking around in apparent confusion. Tyrell smiled at her gently, and offered an apology for boring her into sleep. Sansa thanked him politely, but her soft expression and sleepy smile were aimed most effectively at Randyll Tarly, who was looking at her with something akin to affection in his eyes.

“Lady Sansa,” he said, “shall I escort you back to your chambers? We’ve finished here, and perhaps you could use some rest before dinner.”

“Y-yes, please, my Lord,” she replied, “I should like that very much.”

Sansa quickly put away her needlework, stood and gave a low curtsy to Mace Tyrell, thanking him for his time and guidance. Tarly threaded her arm through his and led her away, the heat of his body radiating and warming her to the point that her cheeks flushed. The man was fairly burning for her, she could feel it as the thin skin of her wrist touched his forearm. As skin met skin, he pulled her from the room almost forcefully, and nudged the door shut with an elbow.

Sansa could see Brienne standing a few steps up the hallway, but she flicked her eyes at the woman meaningfully, and Brienne strode away without a glance at them. Tarly took the opportunity firmly in hand, and spun Sansa up against the wall, forcefully enough that she did not have to feign a gasp when her back hit the rough stone wall. She stared up at him, but did not speak, as he planted a hand on either side of her and leaned in closely.

“Sansa,” his voice was nothing like Sandor’s, but the heat in it reminded her of him all the same.

“Y-yes, my Lord Tarly?” she stammered out, taking care to bite her lower lip delicately and look up at him through the sweep of her lashes.

One of his hands was suddenly off the wall, and curved around the side of her neck, surprisingly delicate for such a hard man. His thumb was on her pulse, she could feel it jump and quicken at his touch, while his fingers were curled possessively around to the nape of her neck. Sansa found she did not have to feign her shortened breaths or the way her hand trembled when she brought it up to rest on his wrist.

“I am an honorable man,” Tarly said, “I have never broken the vows I made to my wife in the sept at Horn Hill. She has been a good wife to me. And yet...I cannot stop thinking about you, wanting you for my own. A girl of an age with my daughters...”

Tarly sounded almost disgusted with himself, but his touch was still gentle on Sansa’s neck and when he leaned in, pressing his lips to hers, the kiss was sweeter than it had any right to be. Her mouth parted almost of its own accord, and she could taste the wine he had drank as her tongue met his. It lasted only a moment, a shared breath, and then it was over.

He moved back, the hand at her neck moving down to her shoulder, and then her elbow, pulling her away from the wall gently. Tarly led her down the hallway, until they came across Brienne lingering in an open doorway, making uncomfortable smalltalk with a Serry girl. Sansa opened her mouth to greet them both, but before she could say a word, Lord Tarly released her arm and stood looking at her.

“My lord?” Sansa said, trying to understand this abrupt turn.

“Sansa, I must...leave you, for the moment. Would you dine with me tonight? With my family and I, I mean?” Tarly’s voice was strained, and Sansa could see a tendon in his neck standing out.

She merely nodded her assent, staying silent as he raised her hand to his lips then turned and strode away. As soon as he was gone, she turned to Brienne and motioned that they should go, then turned to the Serry girl, _oh, what **is** her name?_ , and mouthed some polite words before leaving. She could see from the girl’s face that she’d said all the right things; had, in fact, made the girl’s day with whatever kind words she’d pulled out of thin air.

As they approached her rooms, Sansa turned to Brienne and placed a hand upon her forearm.

“Stop. Go and fetch Jaime and Sandor, please. We’ve entered the next stage of this...whatever this is, and I need to speak with you all.”

As Brienne went to fetch the men, Sansa steeled herself to tell them Lord Tarly had taken liberties, and that she would allow him to continue to do so.


End file.
